The Taste of Fear - the 60th Annual Hunger Games
by TheOtherLachance
Summary: SYOT. The scent of the pine leaves would mask the stench of blood; the lapping of the gentle waves upon the shoreline would cover the screams; unseen creatures would drag them under. But was the unknown truly worse than the inevitable, which faced them head on: Death himself twirling his scythe, a hourglass in hand? Let the Games begin.
1. In the Beginning

"_The smell of blood, the taste of fear, the lust for something more..."_

As Head Gamemaker Alessia Caro entered the bustling hub of the Gamemaker's Headquarters, the fluorescent lights of computers and complex machinery hit her so hard that she nearly fell backwards, the magenta glass of her spectacles magnifying it painfully. Steadying herself momentarily with one, gloved hand, she shot a glare at a group of Gamemakers nearby- whom had not shown a slight amount of interest in her, despite her stumble- and marched towards the centre of the room, where a short, pale haired man leaned over a circular silver table. Her high heels made loud slapping noises on the metal floor, attracting some attention. Alessia stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the lab-coated employees who worked in the room.

Baring her unnaturally white teeth in a smile at the man leaning over the table, she joined him at a respectful distance- precisely two metres away- and leaned one elbow casually on the round table. President Snow, who had been admiring the map she had programmed into place, turned to look at her, unsmiling. Although there was no sign of either pleasure or displeasure in his almost colourless eyes, Alessia realised with a smug smile that he seemed, by the twitch of a smirk at his lips, pleased.

"Morning, Coriolanus," she said, her tone warm, but clipped and sharp. When the President did not return the greeting, a spike of fear hit her stomach hard; although Alessia was certain that she had done a _perfect _job, as she always did, the man usually greeted her in a semi polite, if cold, tone. His lack of words made her a little nervous, and she had to fight to keep the immensely fake smile on her plump lips. It was becoming rather strained and, out of the corner of her eye, she could see a few of the other Gamemakers watching them now.

President Snow nodded at her, as if sensing her fear, and she relaxed slightly.

"Good morning, Miss Caro. Would you care to explain this map to me?"

Perhaps Alessia had been expecting pleasantries. It'd been a full year since she'd last spoken to the man, and she'd almost forgotten how straight-forward he was. His wrinkled hands were running all over the hologram on the table, the hologram she had so carefully set up for his approval. She fought the urge to slap his hands away from it.

The hologram was in the shape of a small archipelago of islands, clustered around one larger island in the middle, with wooden bridges connecting each one of them. A large forest took up the centre of the largest island, a yellow stretch of sand running around its borders, with salt water from some kind of sea lapping at it. All over the islands, dwellings were scattered; mostly in ruins, but some still intact. It seemed that there had once been a town of kinds on the island, a town long destroyed, but still vaguely sustained. It had taken Alessia many months, but she'd located it just off the coastline of District 9. A ghost town, she thought gleefully, as she tried to ignore President Snow getting his grubby hands all over it.

_It wasn't meant to be touched._

"It's an archipelago of several islands, which once were home to a small town," Alessia began to explain, wringing her hands slightly as she observed the hologram. "Some of the ruins still remain. Some food left there- tins, perhaps- may still even be edible. It was abandoned eighty or so years ago so, as you can probably imagine, it's rather rundown… Tributes will fight at the Cornucopia on the largest island. Wooden bridges run between the islands… But here's the catch. You know what's in the sea?" She smirked and, walking towards a desk, rifled amongst the papers for a moment. It took her thirty seconds or so, but she eventually drew out a diagram of what looked like a fish, with fangs as long and sharp as needles. "Slaughterfish. Mutts, created several years previously. They'll tear a tribute apart on contact. Every three days, we destroy a bridge, and flood one of the outer islands. The surviving tributes will be gradually pushed towards the largest island, causing an ineveitable climax… So what do you think?"

Very, very slowly, a smile came onto President Snow's face. It was not a pleasant smile, and sent a thrill of fear up Alessia Caro's spine. Turning towards her, his rosy cheeks pushed back by the corners of his puffy lips, he was an unpleasant sight.

"That's just fine," he agreed. "Well done."

The 60th Hunger Games was about to begin.

* * *

**TRIBUTE SHEET (pm it to me, or it will not be accepted)**

**Name:**

**Age:**

**Preferred District (put two or three):**

**Personality (Be Detailed!):**

**Appearance:**

**Family/Friends:**

**Backstory:**

**Strengths:**

**Weaknesses:**

**Reaped or Volunteered:**

**Up for Allies?:**


	2. Reapings Part 1

**I can't pack everything about your character into this one Reaping, so-o-o… It'll be revealed gradually over the story. It'd suck otherwise, right?**

**The quality of writing kind of decreases… You'll probably be able to tell at about the point I got bored, but kept going because I'm too stubborn to admit I'm fucking tired. Hah, don't worry, the grammar and spelling should be fine. I'm just pretty sure I get less descriptive. Not dramatically so, just a little.**

**DISTRICT 1**

It is a cold morning in District 1. Since the district itself is usually rather warm, some have chosen to take this as a bad omen of kinds; the weather has been unpleasant for weeks, and most are grateful that the fierce thunderstorm that had reigned the night previously has subsided. The weather is unusual, and it frightens some of the more superstitious people.

Audrey Syrian does not count herself amongst these.

Sitting on her overstuffed mattress, she concerns herself only with opening the Reaping present her mother had left by her door. It is not wrapped, merely coming in the box in which it was packed by the store-owner, but Audrey doesn't really care. Her parents would never bother themselves with something such as wrapping a gift. They have better things to do: drinking expensive liquor, bemoaning their respective pasts, and buying extravagant items to fuel their own wretched materialism.

She smirks as she unearths a pair of fine earrings that look- to her well-trained eye- to be sapphire, or some other precious jewel in a deep shade of blue. For a second she admires them, turning them over in her hands, before she tosses them into the corner of her room without a second thought.

They lie abandoned on the thick carpet, in a pile of other objects that would keep a starving family fed for a year. Audrey's previously serene face contorts into a grotesque mask of fury, and she glares at the earrings. Anger, that's one of the only emotions she feels, and she tends to relish it, in a way. When a person is as cold and emotionless as she is, you can only look forward to those rare times where your empty body fills with feeling.

She gets to her feet; pushes her chestnut brown hair out of her eyes, and allows her face to relax back into its usual, cool expression. Audrey takes in a deep breath, before walking out of the lavish room full of abandoned luxuries, and marches downstairs, her blue eyes as cold as they are dead. Even when she spots her mother sitting in a plush armchair, her ridiculously permed hair practically static above her face, she does not pause.

Audrey walks out of the house and into the town, towards the Reaping.

* * *

Over on the other side of town, Winner Sinclair is walking towards the square, a wide grin on his face. He does not share the cold demeanour of Audrey Syrian; his thin lips are contorted into a smile that could put a Jack O' Lantern to shame. He is flanked on both sides: a girl with model-attractive looks on his right side, a boy with a similar smirk to Winner's on his left.

"Hey, Jewels, did you know that I'm volunteering today? Pretty impressive, ri-i-ight?" Winner shoots a flirtatious look at the girl beside him, who rolls her eyes good-naturedly. By this point, Jewels has grown relatively used to him, but she sometimes can't help but get irritable with him. Especially when he's in one of those _moods_. "And everybody loves a Victor. So I ask you again: will you go out with me?"

"Stop it."

All three of them laugh, and continue on their way. Soon enough, however, Winner is waylaid by a pack of attractive females, who are all dressed up for the Reaping. His eyes practically pop out of his skull as he admires their sheer choice of clothing, and he sidles towards them, smoothing back his short brown hair.

"Hey, ladies. You all ready to be r-r-r-Reaped?" Winner rolls the 'R', a cocky smile in place on his face. He observes that they do not seem to be particularly interested in him, coming from their confused facial expressions, and almost rolls his eyes. As they continue walking towards the square, he walks backwards in front of them, practically skipping along. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jewels and Mineral (his two friends) laughing at him, and shoots a smirk in their direction. Then, he switches his attention back to the three girls he is attempting to court. "Not looking too shabby there, Sari Paladino." He winks at Sari, who has dark skin and flowing black hair. She rolls her eyes.

"Winner, I have a boyfriend." She informs him crisply, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Upon being rejected, Winner staggers backwards, dramatically holding onto his heart, a look of immense pain on his face. He lets out a guttural cry.

"Oh but Sari, I love you! You'll never do better than me!" He continues to call after them after they walk away. "You don't want to die old and alone, do you? Guys don't like old, ugly chicks!"

* * *

Aubrey waits in the crowd, amongst a pack of other seventeen year olds. Her lips are pursed in disapproval of the wait, and she taps her fine-boned fingers on her leg impatiently. The District Escort will not stop _talking. _Of course, she loves the Hunger Games. She loves the idea of holding fear over the heads of her peers, instilling pain and horror in their hearts, of being in control…

"Ladies first!"

She tilts her chin upwards, managing to compose herself and keep her usual, cold facial expression. Although she'd never admit it, she's a little excited. Finally, after all these years… And so, before the District Escort even has the chance to call out a name, she lets the immortal words leave her mouth. She has been holding them there for quite a while.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

* * *

Winner watches the beautiful girl walk up to the stage, and narrows his eyes. Although he usually remains goofy and a little hyperactive, he sometimes knows when to take things seriously. And today is the day that he volunteers; that had, after all, been the source of his previous excitement. But this girl looks… frightening. He doesn't recognise her, and Winner knows _everybody._

At least, he thought he did.

When the District Escort calls out the name of a male, he opens his mouth and the words leave his mouth. "I volunteer!" Of course, he isn't sure that it's wise. The predatorial look on the face of his female counterpart is enough to send shivers down his spine, and he swallows. But it's too late.

Winner Sinclair walks towards the stage.

**DISTRICT 2**

Korina Mawer sits back against the papered wall of her bedroom, a bottle of liquor sat beside her. She doesn't like the taste particularly, nor does she like the burn it leaves as it travels down her throat. The tender flesh of her mouth still tingles, her thin lips numb; she feels a little addled. It's her _thing_. Not her thing precisely: it's what everyone aged seventeen does, and she doesn't want to be the one exception.

She remembers what day it is, and blinks, a sudden spike of fear running through her, and a harsh gasp coming from the depths of her stomach. Korina's face reddens, and she hastily pans her eyes around the room, in fear that she might have somehow been observed in her expression of fear. Fear is not something she is allowed to feel. Fear is for the lesser people, and is a _weakness_. Not something she should be feeling.

Suddenly feeling guilty and rather uncomfortable by the open liquor bottle beside her, she reaches over to move it; her fist collides with the glass, and it tips onto the carpet. Foul-smelling alcohol spills all over the floor, and Korina cries out. "Darn- uh, bullshit!"

For a few moments, she attempts to scoop up the alcohol, but eventually grows frustrated, and pulls a blanket off her bed, and spreads it over the growing stain. Korina sits and glares at it for a moment, before becoming distracted and wandering over to her dresser. There's a picture of her on it, and she's surrounded by three other people. A powerfully built girl, who, Korina privately thinks, looks manlier than the two boys in the photograph.

Fortemo, Elliot, and Wario. Her friends and her boyfriend. Only, she's with Wario too, since she's only with Elliot because he's considered the perfect District 2 man. She'll probably grow up and marry him, and they'll have perfect District 2 children, and she'll keep Wario on the side. Because he's strong and boneheaded, and everyone expects her to have two boyfriends.

Shutting her eyes momentarily, Korina swallows, before clenching her jaw and taking a quick look at herself in the mirror. She straightens her stooped posture, and shoots a cocky smile in the direction of her mirror, before heading out of her room. She'll meet her _friends_ on the way to the Reaping.

* * *

Damien Wells smiles. Oddly enough, he always smiles. Sometimes, it's more of a smirk than a smile or, sometimes, it's more of a grimace. Either way, even when his cheeks ache and he can feel his teeth digging into his lips, he never stops. Maybe that's why people call him "Mr Glad"; to almost everyone in the district, he brightens up their lives. It's his positive presence, perhaps, that gains him so many friends.

Nobody questions the cheerful, bubbly boy when these friends disappear and are never seen or heard of again.

Damian walks down the street, exchanging pleasantries with most people he passes. He bares his teeth, his light green eyes wide and, in a certain light, almost maniacal. He makes his way towards the warehouse on the edge of the town, which used to contain wheat supplies. In fact, according to the Capitol Officials, it still does. What they don't seem to realise, is that it was cleared out months ago by thieves. And, after all, Damian likes to be able to cover up his tracks, which has to be done in advance. Because when he gets into his stride, he's often too angry to stop and think about the consequences of his actions.

The warehouse is his sanctuary. His "Fortress of Fun", as he has nicknamed it. When he offhandedly mentions it to his followers (friends…), they seem to think it to be one of his strange quirks.

"Good morning, Miss Coppermeld!" He says, waving cheerfully at a young woman with an attractive face, and shoulder length, neat blonde hair. He'd rather like to cut that face off. The idea that she is allowed to be attractive, knowing her unpleasant personality, very nearly makes him frown. A white hot anger begins to build up inside him, and he clenches his fists. His heart pumps hard against his chest.

"Ugh." She replies, shaking her head at him. Another flash of anger runs through him, and he narrows his eyes, the friendly smile never leaving his face. He nods once more at her, before continuing towards the warehouse… He'll spend a few hours there, before heading to the Reaping.

As he climbs the ladder up to the back window, Damian reflects that when he is finished with his current playmate, he'd rather like to persuade Miss Coppermeld to take a trip into his "Fortress of Fun".

* * *

Korina waits amongst the other seventeen year olds. Elliot's arm is possessively around her shoulders, and he stands with his chin lifted like some kind of hero. On her other side, Wario has his arm snaked around her rear, his hand resting on her behind like he has some kind of right to her. There is a familiar smirk on his tanned face, and he shoots a wink at her behind Elliot's back. She smiles back at him, but it is remarkably strained.

She is nervous. Why? Because she is about to make the biggest sacrifice possible. The possible sacrifice of her life. She knows it's stupid, that it's plainly ridiculous that she is doing this for the mere respect of her peers… But what if she wins? Nobody would ever be able to doubt her again! Her father would never be able to call her a "Spoiled Brat" and her step-mother would never be able to whine about her…

So, when the time came, she spoke the words that would bind her to her future. "I volunteer as tribute!"

* * *

Damian could still feel the blood on his hands. The pitiful screams of his playmates played over and over in his head, like some kind of record on repeat. The cries of pain overshadowed the whiny voice of the District Escort… He wanted more screams. The constant rush of adrenaline to his heart when he was _hurting people_ was enough to keep him going.

Sure, he'd barely trained in the Career Academy… He knew how to kill people, and how to lie and manipulate, and he was certainly strong. And so, Damian made a split second decision.

"I volunteer!"

As he walked up to the stage to join the dark haired girl already standing there, he did not let the grin leave his face. He shot a wink at the girl, who blanched, before he spoke his name into the microphone.

"Damien Wells. Some people call me 'Mr Glad'."

**DISTRICT 3**

Skylar Onset sits in her back garden, sitting in the crook of one of the only trees in the district. Her arms rest on two branches either side of her, and her face is tilted back in an expression of consummate bliss. It's rare for her to be so relaxed, since she is usually rather hardworking, but it is Reaping day, today. There is no work to be done, and Skylar appreciates the break.

"Hey, Shorty. You're looking relaxed. What's the occasion?" She opens her eyes, and is faced with her brother's teasing face inches away from her own, and lets out a squeak of surprise. Skylar falls backwards, very nearly losing her balance, but she is pulled back into place by strong arms. Terrence has always been protective; he's the best friend she's ever had, and will ever have.

"Don't be dumb." Skylar replies. She hops down from the tree, suddenly made a little nervous by her near fall, and smiles a little. "It's Reaping Day. Weren't you aware?"

He laughs. "Why, of course I was aware. I'm just wondering why you're looking quite so relaxed, considering the fact that you're in that bowl…" Terrence's expression softens. "Seriously, I'm worried about you, sis."

Skylar shrugs, and begins to walk back towards the house. She is dressed for the Reaping already, having gotten dressed earlier that morning. Although she certainly doesn't want to talk about it- not precisely being the best talker in the world- she is remarkably nervous. The sunbathing had been her misguided attempt to clear her mind, although it hadn't really worked. She will be paranoid about relaxing in the tree for a long time to come, now that Terrence has pulled that trick on her.

Swallowing, Skylar glances towards the clock, very nearly winces, and walks over to the front door. She pulls on her canvas shoes, before reaching up to pull the clock off the wall, and flops down onto the stairs. She gazes at it fiercely, watching the second hand ticking away the seconds until she will have to leave the house. Terrence tries to capture her attention again, to distract her, but she is dead-set. She shoots him a brief smile, before returning to her watching of the clock. If she wants to talk to someone, she'll initiate the conversation. She intensely dislikes it when people try to catch her attention.

She sits on the stairs until it is time to go.

* * *

Spectre Wishart sits at his computer screen, his head tilted to one side, his thin lips pursed together in concentration. He focuses completely on the formulae he is typing up, his slim fingers a whirlwind on the expensive keyboard, purchased by his mother to keep him out of the way. He can hear screams of anger, the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and his older sister's screams as she attempts to keep control; no denying, his family is insane. But is that truly a surprise?

With a mentally unstable Hunger Games victor as a mother, a neglectful man for a father, and enough arguing siblings to drive him to the brink of homicidal behaviour, it is really no surprise that Spectre could be labelled a little… well… odd. Perhaps it is his occasional habit of mumbling to himself, or the reputation his family is labelled with, but people tend to avoid him.

And that, really, is fine with him.

"Spectre, get your ass up, and help me!" Gethen howls. Gethen and Thanas are his younger sisters- twins- and, unlike most pairs of twins, they hate each other with a passion. Right now, they are brawling like street-cats, snarling and scratching at each other with startling ferocity. His eldest sister, Tempest, and his younger brother Crucis stand by, watching the fight.

Without even considering the possibility that one of his siblings might get hurt, Spectre remains in his seat, his eyes glued to the screen. He's used to it, really, the way that they fight. They can do what they want; he couldn't care less. The fact that they think he feels vestige of loyalty or love to either one of them, these people who share a few pints of blood with him, is almost laughable. He has never understood the concept of loyalty. It fascinates him, really. However, it is something to be studied and read about, not felt.

He takes a quick glance at the clock in the corner of the computer screen, rolls his eyes, and shuts the computer down with an almost regretful look. To be honest, he feels more comfortable with his computer than real people. Real people are complex. Machinery is programmed to do whatever you want it to: no complications, no emotions.

Taking one last, longing glance at his computer, Spectre kicks his chair back and begins walking towards the door, scooping up his coat and putting it on. He pulls his hood up to cover long black hair, and narrows his eyes, bringing a hand up to shield his eyes from the overbearing sunlight.

* * *

Skylar stands amongst the other thirteen year olds, rather nervous. She doesn't like being surrounded by these people at the best of times, due to her overbearing shyness, but she manages to stop herself sheltering her face. She even keeps a small, nervous smile on her face, her hands stuffed into her pockets, as she watches the District Escort prancing about onstage. Her heart is beating as hard as a mad drummer, her dark eyes wide and nervous. There is a nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she might vomit up her breakfast at any given moment.

The District Escort pulls a name from the girls' Reaping Bowl, and smiles widely before she says the name. Skylar tenses, digging her fingernails into her palms.

"Skylar Onset!"

Spectre stands uncomfortably with the other fourteen year olds, his hood still up over his hair, despite it being a sunny day. There is a clean metre between him and any of the other adolescents, but he barely even notices it. He doesn't like them, and appreciates that they choose to leave a distance between themselves and him.

* * *

The girl onstage looks about twelve or thirteen, and has a haunted expression on her face. She is called Skylar, he realises, and they attend the same school. She is visibly shaking, attempting to shelter her face from the crowd's view. He raises his eyebrows, watching her with his head tilted to one side, as the District Escort pulls a name out of the male's Reaping bowl.

"Spectre Wishart!"

There are a few gasps, although Sceptre does not let one out himself. Despite feeling a small thrill of fear at the first mention of his name, he calms down remarkably quickly, and a small expression of delight comes onto his olive-skinned face. He walks up to the stage at a casual pace, and stands next to Skylar, looking a great deal more threatening than she does.

This, you see, is his breakthrough. Something he had been wondering about, like he wonders about all sorts of things to do with life. Life: something he doesn't understand. Like the feelings that he is supposed to understand… Something like good and evil. Perhaps these Games will reveal to him something that he does not currently understand.

Or perhaps, Sceptre thinks to himself, he is _beyond good and evil_.

**DISTRICT 4**

Exotica Scott reclines lazily behind her makeshift desk. Her dark blonde hair falls in front of her green eyes in a way that only someone like her could accomplish; so effortlessly attractive, that she seems frightening. And perhaps it is the expression- bordering maniacal- on her face that prevents her from being alluring, rather than terrifying.

Her "office" is actually a room in the attic of her large house. It is small and rather musty, and the light never works, but Exotica likes to think this works to her advantage. It gives her extreme kicks to be intimidating. Seeing the fearful look on her clients' faces practically gets her off, to the extent that she would insult and frighten them on purpose.

A scuffling comes from the corner of the room, and Exotica turns around just in time to see the trapdoor crashing open. It makes her jump, but she manages to compose her just in time to come face to face with a sweaty, red-faced young man with a look of both fury and horror on his face. His mouth is gaping like a fish out of water, and his unattractive clothes are practically dripping with his sweat. There is a knife clutched in his right hand. Exotica wrinkles her nose.

"Manzo, you're disgusting. Heard of a shower?" She sneers, crossing her arms over her chest. The man looks maddened, practically feral, but she scarcely even registers this. All that Exotica is really concerned with is the fact that he is dripping sweat all over her floor.

Manzo stumbles towards her, and points a finger at her, his teeth bared in an insane snarl. Her lip curls upwards, and she feels a sudden, highly unprofessional stab of fear. Exotica easily suppresses it, however, and simply rolls her eyes at him.

"You said…" Manzo is animated, insane. His words are garbled. "You said you'd get me with Atlantica! Y-you didn't tell me you'd have her boyfriend… k-killed…" He practically sags, dropping his knife to the ground and falling to his knees, his anger replaced by misery. Manzo gazes at her with ginormous eyes, tears dripping down his face. Exotica's heart quickens, and she curls her lip upwards, gazing at him with fervour. This is exactly what she likes. The feeling of being in control, and knowing she can do exactly what she wants. Deals, that's what she likes. Stupid people come to her well-known business, in hope that her "connections" will get them a good deal. And she twists it all around, to make things better for her.

Which is why she wants to go into the Hunger Games: fresh hordes of people to manipulate, and twist to suit her purposes, and insult. She'll win it with _ease_… Twist people against each other, and make them both hate and desire her.

Unfortunate souls… Everything has a price.

* * *

Rio Seymour sits in his family's study, a book on his lap, and a frown on his face. His thick glasses are falling a little way down his nose, but he scarcely notices. He is practically swelling with hate. For _him_, his foolish… inane… asinine… dim-witted father. Usually, Rio's face is an emotionless mask, his voice low and inexpressive. But yesterday evening, he had done something he would not usually do: he had begged somebody to do something for him. Had humiliated himself.

You see, his father- the half-wit imbecile of a man- is running low on funds. They are very much an aristocratic family gone downhill, which Rio's father tends to remind both of his children on a regular basis. So the _idiot_ had done the only thing possible in his mind: had offered to sell his daughter Viviana (Rio's beautiful, beautiful sister) to one of his friends. For money.

And the only alternative? Rio has to volunteer for the Hunger Games, and hope to high heaven that he wins. Had to beg the half-baked planned volunteer from the Academy to take his place.

Without even thinking about what he is doing, Rio tears the book in half, his eyes blazing with hatred behind his thick-rimmed glasses. For a few moments he fumes, half of the book in either hand, the spine ripped neatly down the middle… Then, he takes a deep breath. It isn't worth him getting worked up. When he gets angry, things tend to go wrong. Badly wrong.

Rio gets up, and sheepishly puts the torn up book back on the shelf, biting his bottom lip. He takes a few seconds to mourn the loss of one of his favourite books, lost to his anger, before he decides to take it as a lesson. When he loses his carefully polished calm demeanour, bad things happen to him. If he's going to go into the Hunger Games, he certainly can't afford to do anything that might endanger his winning. Viviana _needs _him.

He walks through his library, looking around it for what could be the last time. He runs his hands-calloused from his use of his favourite weapon, knives- over the dusty bookshelves, running his strong fingers over their spines, admiring them all. Over the years, Rio has read almost every single one of them. Literature is his true love, although he enjoys other academic practises, like Maths and Science.

Obviously, he was previously mocked for it. Most knife-throwers in the Academy are female, with the exception of the weaker males- which included him- and with the addition of this to his love of academics, he was an easy target. However, Rio had gotten better over the years. Gotten stronger. He is no longer weak.

With one last look at the beloved room where he had spent most of his childhood, Rio walks out of the door.

* * *

Exotica takes her place at the front, surrounded by all of the other eighteen year olds. She is granted with a few wary looks, and answers them with equally unpleasant smirks. It seems like a few of them are getting bolder. Pity; she's been running her little business ever since she was fifteen years old, and is starting to run out of fresh meat. People- meaning Peacekeepers- are starting to suspect. It is probably wise that she escape the district, before she gets hung. Or worse.

The District Escort is already over by the females Reaping Bowl, since Exotica managed to arrive late, and is dangling her _horribly _manicured hand inside it. She pulls out a slip of paper and reads out a name, her words affected by her plainly ridiculous Capitol accent. And before anyone else can speak, Exotica has shouted out,

"I volunteer!"

She sashays her way up to the stage, ignoring the startled look from the District Escort, and brings the microphone to her lips. Although Exotica likes to imagine that she looks seductive, a few of the onlookers shrink back, fearful of her.

"My name is Exotica Scott. And I'm going to win these Games."

* * *

Rio rolls his eyes at the girl onstage. Arrogant, slightly insane looking… Its Exotica, too, one of the most hated people in the entire district. Oh well, she might make a reasonable district partner, if only to bring in the sponsors.

So when the District Escort calls out the next name, Rio is quick to respond with a loud, "I volunteer as tribute!" and practically sprints up to the stage. It only occurs to him when he has run about half way that he should be trying to impress Capitol watchers, if he actually wants sponsors. He considers pausing and doing something impressive, but by the time he has thought of it, it seems to be too late.

So, ignoring the triumphant smirk on Exotica's face, he clambers up beside her. He knows that he makes a rather unimpressive figure next to her, but barely cares. For Viviana, he'd do anything. And just because Exotica is impressive _looking_, perhaps, she's no match for him. He's sure of it.

**DISTRICT 5**

Mim Fuze dunks the clothes in the pail of water, her hands wrinkled and tough from years of doing this herself. It is her job in the household: her parents have always been hardworking people, and expect their children to act the same. She does the family laundry and, although she doesn't precisely enjoy it, it's certainly better than doing something more demeaning, like cleaning out the toilet. Mim smirks to herself as she continues scrubbing at the coarse material of her father's trousers, rubbing the soap deep into the material.

She hears footsteps, and turns her head around, to grin at her twin brother. Matrik is her spitting image; dark haired and freckled. Although, personality-wise, he tends to be more optimistic, and less brash. Sometimes she becomes irritated with him for this reason, although she usually lets him off for it. After all, he _is _her brother.

"What's up, Bitchface?" Mim says cheerfully, shooting a wink in his direction. Matrik's face reddens momentarily, as he tries to grasp whether she is messing with him (she usually is), or is actually being insulting. The look on her face leads him to the impression that she is just high-spirited, for some non-apparent reason. "I'm messing with you. It's all right."

Mim isn't sure why she's really in such a good mood. Sometimes, she just wakes up happy, and can't honestly work out why. She's never been an optimistic person, not like Matrik, but she's usually in a reasonable mood. Never too sociable, especially not with people she doesn't know, but happy enough to blend in. That way, she can observe people. Call it nosiness, but she likes knowing about people.

"Excited for the Reaping? I can practically see the elation in your face." Mim teases, finishing with her father's trousers, and reaching over to the pile of dirty clothes. Her hands scrabble around for a moment, before she pulls out her power-plant uniform. She rolls it over in her hands and, momentarily, her good mood fades. A stain, now faded from red to what looks almost brown, is spattered on the front of it. She balls the material up in her hands.

Perhaps, if she washes it extra hard today, it might finally disappear. Although that seems unlikely, since she's been trying for the last two years or so, and it has done nothing but faded. She shuts her eyes momentarily, attempting to cleanse the image from her mind, before pushing the uniform underwater. Her work at the power-plant has given her plenty of nightmare material. It seems that the Capitol doesn't care enough to replace faulty equipment, or those pointless deaths might have been avoided.

Matrik seems to tense her sudden anxiety, because he leans down and pulls her to her feet by the arm. He smiles at her, trying to brighten the mood. "Come on. Hattie and Rosa will be waiting for you, won't they? We should head out. The Reaping's soon, and we certainly don't want to be late."

* * *

Lukas Bright holds a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and allows himself to bathe in the smoke emanating from the end of it. The room is dark and smells like tobacco smoke, but he rather enjoys the smell. It relaxes him, certainly, in a way nothing else can. A few years ago, he would have turned his nose up at the offer of a cigarette; however, ever since he fell into his current company, it'd been one of his only salvations.

He sits on the bottom step of a large, sumptuous looking staircase, and privately hopes that the smoke will stain the luxurious carpet or, even better, the drapes. He loathes everything about his job- particularly his boss- but there is very little he can do. Ever since Mr Arsenio (whom he still occasionally refers to as "Mr Arse") had picked him off the streets as a straggly, lanky orphan, Lukas has worked hard to protect the man with his life. Of course, he doesn't work alone: Arsenio, being one of the most influential underground barons in the district, practically has his own personal army of bodyguards. But Lukas seems to be one of his favourites.

Growing tired of his current cigarette, he tosses it into the corner, and lights another. He sucks in a deep breath, before letting out a low, deep chuckle. His icy blue eyes fixate on a spot in the shadows, and he gets to his feet. Lukas lets the cigarette fall from his lips, and walks towards the spot. At the last moment, his left arm shoots out, and he grabs at the darkness. His thick, calloused fingers come across a cloth collar, and he hears a shout of shock, and then a wild laugh.

"You'll never sneak past me, Nott. My dad was a cat-burglar, I know what I'm saying." Lukas holds the small man in the air for a few more seconds, before dropping him to the floor, and returning to his seat on the stairs. He lights another cigarette, and watches Nott absentmindedly, flicking his lighter on and off with one hand.

Nott approaches him, a small smile on his skinny face. "You can't do everything, Anger-Management," he says, using his old nickname for Lukas. The man in question scowls. "I'll sneak past you some day, and Arsenio will be dead. Just a warning. By the way, my boss sends his regards."

"Mmph. Tell him he needs to hire better people. You suck."

Narrowing his eyes, Nott curls his lip upwards cruelly, before beginning to walk towards the exit. Lukas watches him carefully, although makes a great show of pretending to light another cigarette. His icy blue eyes, although a little unfocused from the cigarette, are fixed firmly on Nott's retreating back. At the last moment, the lackey turns around to face him. There is an unpleasant look on his face. "Hey, you know what? Fuck you, Lukas. I'll bring a gun next time, and blow your brains out."

"Sure."

"You aren't even going to do anything about it? Say anything? Do you have a single vestige of imagination, Lukas, or…"

Lukas stands up. He tilts his chin upwards, and crosses his muscular arms. He spills cigarette ash on the carpet, and dances an inner jig of excitement. However, he manages to contain himself. With a mean glare, he says, "Of course I have no imagination. My father was an accountant."

* * *

Mim stands still, surrounded by her friends. Rosa stood a little closer to the front than the other three, her face upturned, and a look of naïve excitement on her slightly chubby-cheeked face. Hattie looks bored, and Matrik looks simply terrified. He watches the District Escort with fearful eyes, but his eyes are gleaming with hope. Mim doesn't feel nearly so hopeful, her full lips twisted nervously.

"First, the girls!" The District Escort plunges his hand deep into the pile of slips of paper, a kind of disturbing anticipation on his painted face. For a few moments he searches around, before he pulls out a slip of paper, holding it up dramatically.

Mim's whole body tenses and she closes her eyes, her whole body turning to jelly as she awaits the words…

"Mim Fuze!"

Her eyes snap open, and she lets out an involuntary gasp of horror.

* * *

Lukas watches from amongst a group of other eighteen year olds, his floppy blonde hair falling over his forehead, his shoulders noticeably broader than most of the other academically-influenced people of his age. His stubbled chin rises, as he watches a pretty girl, perhaps a few years younger than himself, walking shakily up to the stage.

After she has been introduced, the District Escort goes to the boy's Reaping Bowl, and rootles around in it like he had with the female's. For a few seconds, his stubby fingers paw around the paper slips, before he pulls out one and reads it.

"Lukas Bright!"

He tenses. His icy blue eyes widen momentarily, before narrowing. People are staring at him, and he doesn't really like being looked at. Searching through the crowd, he finds Mr Arsenio amongst the adults, and they lock eyes momentarily. Lukas looks a little pleading, as if the man could use his influence to help him out of his situation, but is faced with a cold glare.

Squaring his rather prominent jaw, Lukas begins the walk up to the stage.

**DISTRICT 6**

Isabella Dennis is running down the street. Her dark hair flows out behind her, as she puts one foot in front of the other, and allows the world to whizz by, without allowing herself to pay much attention to it. She finds it extremely difficult to concentrate, and prefers for things to go by in more of a rush. Always on the move, in search of more interesting things to do than live life as a normal District 5 girl. Perhaps, if she keeps running, something interesting will happen that will actually engage her.

Until then, she's good with keeping on the move.

Quickly enough, she reaches her small house, and skids round the corner, almost knocking over the makeshift mailbox as she goes. Bella kicks it with the flat of her foot in an attempt to straighten it out and, when it fails, takes a moment to kneel beside it and attempt to sort it out. After about twenty seconds, she reflects that it seems more bent now than it was when she previously crashed into it, so decides to move on.

Bella shoulders open the front door, and converts her sprint into a quick walk. Her three sisters and mother are sat around the kitchen table, and seem to be eating breakfast; she throws herself into a seat next to her mother, and looks expectantly at her plate. When she realises that there is nothing on it, she rolls her eyes, and reaches over the table towards a platter of bread rolls.

"I hate bread." She says almost conversationally, as she takes a large bite out of the roll. Her mother shoots a weary look in her direction, but chooses to ignore her words. Angeline Dennis is well used to her daughter's odd behaviour, and has almost come to embrace it. Ever since Bella was diagnosed with ADHD at a young age, Angeline has gradually been trying to figure out her daughter. "They taste shitty…"

"Isabella, watch your language!"

Bella rolls her eyes at her mother, tapping her fingers on her well-toned thighs. She takes another bite from the roll, before dropping it back onto her plate, and getting to her feet. She cannot stand to stay seated for too long. Shifting from foot to foot, Bella reaches down and picks up the bread again, and takes a seemingly experimental bite. She rolls it around in her cheeks. Then, she smiles.

"Hey, this bread isn't so bad. I take back what I said. Bread rolls are fucking awesome." Completely ignoring her mother's warning growl, Bella strolls out of the room, suddenly enjoying the taste of the bread. She walks in circles as she eats; she gets a strange tingling in her legs when she doesn't move. Although she knows it might give her indigestion, which bothers her a little bit, that's the future. Bella prefers to live in the moment: if she's going to have to deal with a sore stomach later, after the Reaping, then that's Future-Bella's problem. Not hers.

Bella heads upstairs. She smells like sweat from her run, and wants to take a shower before she heads to the Reaping. Since she'll be surrounded by boys at the Reaping, she doesn't particularly want to smell bad.

* * *

Avien Featherling swings his legs over the side of the roof. He is sitting dangerously close to the edge of it, half of his small behind hanging in mid-air with his legs, but this doesn't bother him. He only emotion he feels from this reckless behaviour is excitement, which is how it has always been and, he presumes, how it always will be.

He is surrounded with people, which he also likes. Three of his best friends; they sit together on Reaping morning like they might do on any other morning, gazing over the district from their high vantage point. Of course, all of their parents would murder them if they were caught. But none of them have ever minded about that, nor has it affected their behaviour. Avien, especially, prides himself on being extremely reckless. He bears his bruises like a crown, and makes certain to flash his teeth as often as possible, simply so people can notice the missing canine in his mouth.

Turning to his closest friend Praexie, he grins widely. "Hey, Prax. Reckon I can make that jump right there? I bet I can." He tilts his head towards the large gap between the building on which they are sitting, and a neighbouring building, perhaps a few metres lower.

Praexie grins widely. "Go on, then." She challenges. "You're too small and skinny to get across a gap that massive. You're screwed."

Azrah, whom is the most logical of the group- and Praexie's older sister-, rolls her eyes. She takes an inquisitive look at the gap, and shakes her head. Even with a running start, she is almost certain that Avien would never be able to get over it. The drop, especially from their angle, looks remarkably sheer.

"Do it, Avien," Another voice pipes up. They all turn around, to see Dasher, the fourth member of their party, has stood up. There is a rather manic gleam in his pale grey eyes, and he rolls his shoulders back expectantly, loving the excitement of their lives.

Avien thinks for a second, before shrugging, and getting to his feet. He wobbles precariously, almost falling, and Azrah shrieks loudly and grabs at him. He laughs, pulling himself back up to stability, and marches back a few metres. Pushing himself down into a runner's stance, he focuses his dark blue eyes on the building ahead. He sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, adrenaline running through his whole body. And then, with a sudden burst of speed, he sprints towards the gap, and launches himself into the air.

It is like he is suspended in mid-air: he soars through the air over the gap and spreads his arms out like wings, flapping them desperately like some kind of gigantic bird. He began to plummet towards the ground and, feeling a sudden prickling of fear as his stomach left him behind, he throws his arms out. They smack into the concrete of the building he was attempting to reach, and he hangs there for a few moments, suspended in mid-air. Then, with a grunt of exertion, Avien pulls himself up, and flops onto the building.

Although his arms hurt from impact, his whole body is pumping full of energy. Like this, Avien feels like he could face a thousand armies.

* * *

Bella stands in place with the other fourteen year olds, patting her hands restlessly on her legs. She wants to jog on the spot, but is aware that she might get odd looks if she does so. Instead, she fixates her attention on the District Escort who is onstage, sifting around in the slips for the females. Oddly, she barely feels any fear; only anticipation. Perhaps she is too self-confident, but it feels impossible that she might be picked.

It's not something that happens to people like her. She watches the tributes die on TV, and mourns. Being chosen is something that happens to other people, not her.

"Isabella Dennis!"

So… so why are they calling her name? Not somebody else's?

Bella's eyes widen, and she stops moving. Her hand stiffens, before falling limply to her side. Her stomach gurgles uncomfortably, as she feels her entire body freeze.

* * *

Avien swallows, as he watches the female tribute walking up to the stage. He doesn't recognise her, but she looks completely shell-shocked. He half wishes that he could jump up there and give her a hug, but is aware of how foolhardy he would have to be to do so.

The District Escort is about to call out the male's name, now. He stands up on his tiptoes, trying to see over the heads of the other, far taller sixteen year olds, but can't quite do so. He half considers asking someone if he can sit on their shoulders, but quickly rules that out. Instead, he contents himself with pricking up his ears, pushing back his curly blonde hair in order to listen harder.

"Avien Featherling!"

His deep blue eyes widen. For a second, his heart practically stops, and he feels bile coming up in his throat. All eyes are upon him; he makes a small noise of shock, before standing up further on his tiptoes, and searching for familiar faces in the crowd. But the hulking sixteen year olds surrounding him are blocking out any signs of people he might know. Wrapping his arms around himself, and trying to comfort himself with his own warmth, Avien begins to hesitantly walk towards the stage.

**Phew… You have no idea how long that chapter took. One more Reaping, and we're onto the Capitol chapters, which will be a great deal shorter, I promise :D**

**Five favourite tributes?**

**The ones who appear most will be given sponsors points. Yeah, you can vote for your own tribute, I don't mind. Next chapter should be out on the weekend. **

**Astrid.**


	3. Reapings Part 2

**Once again, I'm not revealing everything about your character in this Reaping. Particularly Patch, Nickel and Aela since they have very meaty backstories...**

**Wow, a lot of people who have read Battle Royale seem to be submitting characters. Since I am currently obsessed with it (especially Shogo, Kazuo and Mitsuko!) I started noticing a lot of similarities between the characters in that and some of the tributes. Particularly Lukas, and Nickel from this chapter.**

**Enjoy the chapter, and disregard any mistakes. I'm tired and have flu.**

**DISTRICT 7**

Charlie Zion plants a fist into her opponents face, with a loud, sharp battle cry. She bites it off quickly, composing herself in order to keep the girl beneath her pressed to the ground. If she can only keep her down for a few more seconds, she'll have won the match. As far as Charlie can hear, the crowd are loving it; shrieking her name, screaming for her not to give up, etcetera... She's heard it all before, but it's nice, all the same.

"Time!" The referee shouts, and Charlie quickly relinquishes her hold. She's covered in sweat, and probably doesn't look good at all, but gets to her feet anyway, and holds up both fists in her victory. She is faced with mixed shouts of abuse and cheers: the majority of the crowd hates her. Her light brown hair, up in a badly done ponytail, is too girlish. Her relatively unmarred teeth and lack of facial injury irritates them. Her small stature that, although masked with carefully sculpted muscles, is far too slight for their liking.

"Leave it to the boys, you dyke!" One crowd member suddenly shouts out, sending a spike of anger through her. Her breath hitches in her throat, and her face contorts into a grotesque expression of fury, but she feels a hand on her arm, and turns around. It's her brother, Marino.

_Annoying as hell, but I love him to hell and back._

He squeezes her arm reassuringly. "Don't worry. They're just jealous. 'Sides, I'm sure nobody would mind if you kicked his crotch in after hours. Just don't get yourself disqualified now."

For a second, Charlie considers his words. Then, she nods. "I know. I wasn't going to do anything anyway." She bluffs. Then, she grins. "Can't believe they still think I'm a lesbian. It's ridiculous, right? You can't be a female into wrestling, or you're evidently gay." Charlie follows Marino to the ropes set up around the ring, and nimbly hops over them. She pushes her way through the crowd. "I'd like some of the boys from around here to go and take a look at the Career Districts. They'd be dead in _seconds_."

Marino chuckles. "I don't know," he teases. "Most of the girls in town who do things like you turn out gay. Maybe if we cut your hair and gave you platform shoes..."

Charlie reaches up, wraps an arm around his neck, and pulls him to her level with a feral smirk. He's laughing, but holds up his hands in a plea for mercy when she tightens her grip around his thick neck. "Peace, I beg you!" Marino mocks, making Charlie laugh harder.

* * *

Marcus Delavega smiles to himself, as he sits with his younger sister Tracey on his lap. She's sound asleep, her tiny hand balled around a lock of his short, spiky brown hair. Since it is Reaping morning, he's glad that at least one person in the household is relaxed. His closest friends, Dan and Adam, sit across from him. All in all, it seems like a rather usual morning with him.

_Go to the lumber camp. Grab an axe. Cut some trees down. So... fucking... simple..._

Getting to his feet, his younger sister still held firmly in his muscular arms, he taps one foot on the ground, glancing at the wooden door of his family's cabin. The clock is ticking down the time until the Reaping begins. He nuzzles his mouth into his baby sister's curls, before almost reverently laying her down on the wooden chair, and turning to his friends.

"Y'all ready to go?" Marcus asks, his low voice breaking slightly, and they nod back at him. At seventeen years old, he makes a rather intimidating figure: his icy blue eyes seem somewhat harsh, and his shoulders and slim waist gave him the look of a warrior. However, in contrast to the rest of him, his gentle demeanour and somewhat girlish features proclaim no demon.

The three boys head to the door. Marcus had has pulled on his beat-up canvas jacket, when he is stopped by a large, calloused hand landing on his shoulder. He freezes momentarily, like a rabbit in the headlights, but his heart slows down the moment he claps eyes upon his father.

His father is grizzled and scarred, and tough as bear, with looks to match. He bears little comparison to the slightly more girlish looking Marcus, but Marcus hopes that he will resemble him, one day. "Just thought I'd say goodbye, boy," He murmurs. He pats Marcus' arm in some form of affection, before letting go. He admires his son. Then, taking a step closer, so that his bearded face is inches from Marcus' ear, he whispers, "Remember what I say, son. If someone hits you, hit 'em back twice as hard. If someone don't touch you, don't touch them. That's how it works. G'luck."

Marcus nods, quickly embraces his father- who seems a little surprised by the sentimental gesture- before following his friends out of the door.

* * *

Charlie waits amongst the other eighteen year olds. It's her last Reaping this year, and she's both relieved and nervous about this fact. After this, she will no longer be a child. How long will her parents continue finding her wrestling acceptable? She doesn't think it's likely that they'll allow her to continue for very long. They'll want to set her up with some boy, and she'll have to live her life out as a housewife...

So, as the District Escort ponces about onstage, Charlie clenches her jaw. She's half hoping that she'll be picked, simply to escape this certain future. Not that she wants to die; nobody wants to die, right? And people will... people will do bad things, in order to survive?

It's odd really. Because she's comforted, shocked, and confused when her name is called. "Charlie Zion!"

* * *

Marcus watches the girl go up to the stage, frowning. She doesn't look particularly frightened: her face is a strange mixture of emotions, like she's about to both smile and cry. She remains stoic. Marcus pities her silently. The fear that must be going through her, to make her look like that...

The District Escort is about to call for the boys, and Marcus hitches up his canvas jacket nervously, wiping his sweaty palms on the sleeves. His heart pounds against his chest, and his lips part.

"Marcus Delavega!"

**DISTRICT 8**

Aela Cureton walks through the streets of District 8, a few minutes after dawn. It's scarcely even light, but this doesn't bother her. She's in one of those periods where she doesn't want to speak to anyone, or even think; sometimes, she just likes to float along in literal and mental silence. It's almost like being dead, which- for some reason she can't quite discern- fascinates her.

A light sparks up to her left, and she almost jumps out of her own skin, green eyes widening in fear at the suddenness of it. There's a man, standing a few inches away from her, with a cigarette held to his mouth, and a lighter in his other hand. He is staring at her, a grin playing on his thin lips.

Aela scowls childishly. Her tangled red hair falls in her face, and she pushes it out of the way somewhat violently, her eyes never leaving the lighter he has in his hand. He is flicking continuously, the fire appearing and disappearing with the suddenness that only flames can have... Aela almost shudders.

"Alright, Fire Crotch?" The man asks, leering down at her. Despite the lecherous way she knows his words were intended, Aela can't help but shudder at the word "fire"... A sudden, feral gleam comes into her eyes, and she curls her lip. Her previously blank face is twisted into a mask, her expression resembling a wolf about to tear apart its prey.

The man's only reaction, is to take a step towards her and, with his lighter free hand, grope at her breasts. He misses almost entirely- Aela presumes that he is drunk- and his thick-set hand lands on her shoulder instead. He keeps it there, pretending that it was where he had tried to have it all along.

Aela freezes up, fear running through her, and her whole body stiffens at the touch. She violently shrugs it off and leaps backwards, as if electrocuted, her red hair standing on end.

"Leave me alone!" She snarls, showing her teeth. "Go and fuck a sheep, or your sister, or yourself!"

And with that, trying not to admit the horror that has come from this simple, rather generic encounter, she runs for her life.

* * *

Mason Maverick blows out deeply, his face red and flushed. He holds himself up with his arms, still in press-up position, and tries to keep himself there. It's not all that difficult, but he only woke up a few minutes ago, and he's already beginning his vigorous training routine. It's something that he does every morning, in order to make up for the lack of Career Training.

For if his father hadn't been promoted to the Head Peacekeeper of District 8 when he was fourteen- a full two years ago- he would have been training for the honour of the Hunger Games every single day, all day. His mother used to be a Trainer there, after all, and Mason rarely gets a break. But, as his mother tells him, it would be far more rigorous if he was still in District 2.

He lowers his head, and pushes himself down into another set of press-ups. He tries to keep his mind blank, as his mother has always told him to do whilst doing his work outs, but his thoughts are running wild without his permission. All of his life, he has trained until his muscles ached, until sweat poured down his face like blood, and... for what?

Getting to his feet, Mason walks into his private bathroom, strips, and steps into the shower. He washes away the morning's toils, and walks back into his room in order to get dressed.

When he re-enters his room, he discovers that it is currently occupied, and rolls his eyes in slight amusement. His younger sister Macy is lying on his bed, her head tilted back against the pillows, her blonde hair strewn all over her face. At seven years old, Mason predicts that she'll be the district beauty when she grows older. He looks at her proudly, and, reaching down, picks her up into his strong arms and throws her into the air.

"Mason!" She caws in delight, letting out a wild laugh when he catches her at the last possible second. Mason throws her up one more time, before lowering her gently to the ground, and standing up straight, half-smiling. "Make me breakfast." Macy orders, satiated but hungry, and begins sashaying towards the door.

"No!" Mason calls after her, and she turns around. Her gaze is remarkably serious, for a seven year old, and she has the look of a predator about her. Under that stare, anyone but Mason would have flinched and done exactly what she said. "You can get it yourself. And, while you're at it, make me some."

"That's not fair!"

"Life isn't fair, sweetheart," He murmurs, and walks straight past her into the hallway. Their house is large and rather distasteful- especially compared to the tenements and hovels that make up the rest of the district. Mason is faintly aware of this, but it doesn't really bother him. His father _is _the most important man in the district, barring the mayor.

Which makes him important, too.

* * *

Aela wanders into the fifteen year olds section, bang on time for the Reaping to begin. She never arrives early, nor does she bother to attempt to make a statement by arriving late (since nobody would notice if she did, so it would be more of a personal statement than anything else).

She listens to the District Escort harping on, and catches her aunt's eye in the audience, and nods at her. She's lived with her aunt and uncle ever since the incident.

The District Escort approaches the girls' Reaping bowl, and Aela holds her breath. She digs her ragged fingernails into her palms hard enough to draw blood.

"Aela Cureton!"

* * *

Mason stands next to his closest male friend, Weft, in the sixteen year olds section. Over on the other side of the square stands Lace, one of his only female friends, who is completely alone. He wonders to himself if he should approach her after the Reaping. Maybe ask her out. He's never been out with a girl before, and he's been interested in her in a while.

He watches the District Escort with careful eyes. His parents want him to volunteer when he's eighteen, since it is inevitablethat he will make a name for himself somewhere, so why not in the Games? This is their philosophy, anyway.

"Mason Maverick!"

Mason lets out an audible gasp, and everyone turns to look at him. His entire body has stiffened.

_Not now! Not now! Not now!_

**DISTRICT 9**

Hiroko Ren crouches on the roof of the Peacekeeper's Barracks, trying her best to stifle a laugh. A group of ragtag children hang around as inconspicuously as possible on the ground, pretending to play a game involving several pine cones and wooden marbles; just previously, they'd snuck into the building in order to steal the tax documents that the Peacekeepers were collecting. Hiroko hadn't done that part herself- her best friend Marigold had adamantly refused to let her do so, since she had an irritating habit of laughing whenever they attempted anything like that- but she was nimble, and had managed to get onto the roof.

She is currently trying to find a place to hide said tax documents, without getting caught and put in the stocks, as had happened quite a few times. Last time it happened, her friends had formed a protective wall around her, to stop people throwing things; people didn't usually, but her friends were a protective bunch, particularly Marigold.

When they'd first met, on their first day at school, Hiroko had been rather self-conscious. Since she was the only kid of Asian heritage she'd ever met- aside from her younger brother Yuri- she'd attracted rather a lot of attention. Most of it was positive, but she'd had her fair share of racism too. That had gradually disappeared, as she gained a reputation as a pleasant person, but she still gets some odd looks.

"Hiroko, hurry up!" Somebody shouts from below, and Hiroko hears the sound of somebody slapping a hand over their mouth, and rolls her eyes. Some of her friends don't _get _that you have to be careful with a delicate procedure like this.

Quickly, she finds an air vent, and slips the tax documents into it, before making her way back towards her friends. Hiroko jumps back to the ground, knee connecting with Marigold's shoulder as she hits the ground. Marigold topples backwards with a squeak, shocked by the sudden impact.

"Mari!" Hiroko murmurs, and crawls over where to Marigold lies on the ground, clutching her shoulder with a look of pain on her pale-skinned face. Upon closer inspection, Marigold appeared perfectly fine, although Hiroko still feels rather nervous. Pushing a strand of silky hair out of her face, she watches her friend with fearful eyes. The rest of the group crowd around them.

"She dead?" Someone says, somewhat stupidly, and is met with a small frown on Hiroko's part.

It takes a few minutes of Hiroko's fussing, and several more rather unintelligent comments, but Marigold is quickly up on her feet once more, and they are able to laugh about the incident. They all head home to get ready for the Reaping, happy with the morning's endeavours. As they walk down the street, Hiroko wraps a rather protective arm around Marigold's shoulders.

* * *

Reel Autin swings the scythe carefully, his body carefully angled to the right, his arms straight and strong. His calloused hands grip the rough wooden handle carefully, as he moves slowly forward, hacking at the countless rows of wheat. Beside him, with a distance of about four metres, works his closest friend Omri. Although it's Reaping Day, and nobody works on Reaping Day, Reel's mother owns this particular field, as well as several others. He volunteered to keep the harvest going, since she always complains about what a waste it is to not work on the Reaping.

_After all, it's only one person who dies..._

"Hey, Reel," Omri calls over, as Reel sends the scythe swishing across his path. He pauses, picking up the wheat stalks, and dropping them in the basket resting on his shoulder. There's not really much point in this, since there's only so much only two men can do, but Reel quite likes the work. He certainly prefers it to sitting indoors and wasting his time away. "Do you think I should wear that denim shirt to the Reaping?" When Reel turns to look at his friend, he realises that Omri's cheeks are pink.

"Why?" He asks suspiciously, easing up on the mowing, and leaning on his scythe.

"You know Rosa?" Omri pauses for a second, before a bashful smile appears on his face. Reel smiles too; it's rare to see his friend smile. Omri was brought up immensely underprivileged and, since Reel is part of one of the richest families in the district, he sometimes wonders what Omri has to smile about. Either way, Reel loves it when he does so, although he'd never admit that. "I _like _her. And I want to look good, because she'll definitely be at the Reaping, right?"

"Yeah, I reckon so. Good luck, Omri." Reel smiles back. "But don't wear the denim shirt. It makes you look fat. I can lend you something, if you want."

Omri frowns, unsure if he is being insulted, but picks up his scythe again and keeps going. He knows Reel well enough to know that he is simply a blunt person: he's goodhearted, sure, but certainly doesn't have anything even resembling a filter.

"Reckon we should head back?" Reel says suddenly, after their baskets are both full, and the scythe blades are dulled from use. "It's getting near to... you know... Reaping time." Both boys suppress shivers. In District 9, Reapings are something to be feared, unlike in Career districts.

The boys begin heading back towards the town, shouldering their scythes.

* * *

Hiroko Ren stands next to Marigold amongst the other seventeen year olds. She is proudly beautiful, despite the all-consuming fear on her face, and grips onto Marigold's hand so hard that her knuckles appear to be popping.

The District Escort is dangling her hand in the girls' Reaping Bowl, her finely manicured pink nails brushing over slips of paper that could have Hiroko's name on... She swallows, her eyes wide, as the District Escort pulls out a slip and opens it, clearing her throat in order to speak.

"This is an odd name... Hiroko Ren!"

* * *

Reel Autin watches curiously as the strange looking girl walks up to the stage. He's never seen anyone like her before- she looks almost alien, to his eye. Pretty, sure, but certainly alien. He quickly loses interest, however, and turns to look back at the District Escort, who is about to call the name of the male tribute.

He's not worried. It's not like he took any tessera; there would be no need for him to do so, since his family has enough money as it is. They don't _need _meagre grain rations. They have full fields of it. Better that somebody who really needs it gets it.

He won't be Reaped. It won't happen.

"Reel Autin!"

_But then again, it does happen._

**DISTRICT 9**

Finley Quill smacks headfirst into the Baker's Shop wall. It's a shock when it happens, and is rather painful, but it's more the sudden confusion that makes her let out a sharp squeal and collapse to the ground. She quickly scrambles to her feet, shooting bashful smiles at started onlookers, and shoots a death glare in the direction of the laughing boy a few metres to her left.

Theo has been her best friend ever since she was thirteen; two long years. He's handsome, somewhat obnoxious, and very much full of himself. Perhaps that's what she likes best about him. Point is, while in all of the time she's thought of herself as very much alone, he's been a little candle shining in the corner of her life.

Finley hops towards him, using one hand to stifle the blood pouring from her nostrils. Theo is still doubled over laughing, and she finds herself giggling a little too. She finds it difficult to stay angry at anyone, least of all Theo. "Who put that wall there?" Finley grins, and Theo's laughter doubles in intensity.

They'd been running. They weren't running for a real reason: Theo has a competitive streak, and Finley is the one who often bears the brunt of it. She doesn't mind it at all, since it has vastly improved her skill when it comes to running- which is often useful. She and Theo live with foster parents along with another girl, Brynn, who is a complete nightmare. Her foster parents, both in their mid-twenties and immensely irresponsible, only fostered the three of them for the money they are paid for doing so.

And neither Brynn or the Venderights are at all pleasant. Which is why the running skill comes in handy.

Finley reaches her hand behind her head, and awkwardly ruffles her dark brown hair. "Have I got a nosebleed?"

"Yeah, you really do... C'mere." Theo pulls a rag out of the pocket of his jeans, and awkwardly pats her nose dry. It continues to bleed, and she pulls the rag out of his hand, holding it to her nose. "Mrs Venderight will _flip_ if you get blood on the carpet."

"Shoot..." Finley purses her lips, and continues mopping at her nose.

* * *

Patchouli "Patch" Kevi stands in the back-alley, his expression deadpan, his hands trembling a little, as they always do in these situations. Although it has been years since he was first forced into affliation with the gang, it still makes him somewhat nervous to be doing deals like this.

He shifts from foot, the bag in his mouth making his cheeks puff out rather embarrassingly. Patch wouldn't usually bother doing anything like this, but the Peacekeepers make him extremely nervous. He's seen too many people get shot for dealing drugs; most nights, he cries himself to sleep, out of simple fear for the days ahead. Permanent black rings are in place around his bloodshot copper eyes.

A tall man in a shabby trenchcoat walks down the alley, and Patch holds his breath. He desperately wants to run, but waits until the customer is in sight, before spitting the plastic bag out of his mouth. He dries it off on the sleeve of his coat, biting his lip. It's coloured, and not transparent, so he can't see the white powder that he knows is inside. Although most of the powder is flour, there's some of the drug in there, too. In truth, the flour makes him even more uncomfortable than the drug.

Without saying a word, Patch hands over the drugs- trying to stop his hands shaking- and does not return the somewhat lecherous smile the man shoots him. Once, a long time ago, he would have smiled back, and possibly even shaken the man's grubby hand. Now, he knows exactly what that smile means, and what would happen if he smiled back.

"Where's the money?" Patch says coolly. Although he can't help but shake on days like this, when Peacekeepers are everywhere, he's no weakling. He's been doing this long enough to know that people are untrustworthy. Trust a person, you get stabbed in the back. And he's been doing this long enough to know that getting stabbed in the back is definitely not a good thing.

"Just coming. Keep your pants on, kid... Or then again, don't." The man smirks, before chuckling, and rifling through his pockets.

Every day, Patch hates all of this. Hates what it has done to his family; killed them, destroyed them.

Patch waits for his money. His heart aches.

* * *

Finley watches the District Escort onstage, her heart thudding. She doesn't know many other fifteen year olds, as she mostly manages to evade school, and it feels very much like she is about to be herded to her death amongst complete strangers.

The woman on the stage has picked out a slip of paper. Across the square, Finley catches Theo's gaze, and shoots an imploring look at him. He purses his lips back at her, before turning back to the front. The air is rife with anticipation.

"Finley Quill!"

Finley's eyes widen, and she lets out a low gasp. Everyone's gaze shifts around to her, and she panics momentarily, eyes popping. For a moment, she is completely still. Then, she ascends the steps to the stage.

* * *

Patch bows his head, his short, rust coloured hair falling forward a little way over his forehead. He takes a deep breath in, and breathes out again. He has been thinking about this for a while: an escape, from his life as it is. And this, the Reaping, is his escape. The only way to get out of this life of crime; a way to get away from the gang.

Like when he was first forced to join... He shakes his head slightly, gaining himself an odd look from a neighbour. He is fifteen, and has seen and done things most adults have not...

So, when the time is right, he lets the words spill from a place deep in his gut. "I volunteer as tribute."

_So get me the fuck out of here..._

**DISTRICT 11**

Rose-Mary Telesco lies back in the field, resting her head against the trunk of a tree. It's scorching hot, and she's somewhat uncomfortable with the back of her head scraping against the tough bark, but she's blissfully happy. It cannot last, but that does not really bother her at this stage.

She imagines a cat running around her feet; a white cat, with... with fairy wings sticking out of its back. And a red heart on it. Sometimes, she likes to imagine things like that. In a world full of colours, sometimes things just seem far too black and white for her liking. So Rose-Mary imagines things: fields full of paper flowers, purple skies, cats with wings... Never to the stage that she truly loses touch with reality. But sometimes, she gets close.

"Hey!" Somebody yells, and Rose-Mary is jolted from her alternate reality. She realises that a person is walking towards her, and quickly recognises it to be her sister, Dahlia. Pushing her blonde hair behind her ears, Rose-Mary smiles cheerfully. Dahlia does not look nearly as cheerful.

"Morning, Dahlia!" She says cheerfully, and lets out a squeak of shock when she is pushed backwards, her dark green eyes widening in fright. "Hey, why'd you do that?"

Dahlia's eyes, a softer green than Rose-Mary's own, are blazing with fury. She stands over Rose-Mary, who is still in shock at the sudden attack. "You missed our private training with Mr. Barley, again! Mother is gonna kill you!"

Their mother is the mayor's assistant, giving them various connections. One of them- probably the most important one anyhow- is Mr. Barley (neither of the girls know his first name), one of the only ex-victors from District 11. He's ageing, but still deadly, and has been training the two girls since they were quite young. They don't know how to do anything aside from grip a knife properly, and they are aware of the right points to _stab_, but Rose-Mary isn't sure she'd actually be able to kill someone in a real life situation. It seems plainly evil to kill somebody, to end a life. Well... unless she really had to.

"Oh... I was just here... Uh, I mean," Rose-Mary realises a moment too late that it might be wiser to lie. "I was attacked by a wild boar. Seriously, I could have died! You should be glad I'm not dead, I mean, I was just lying here... I mean, I was just walking in the woods. And then, all of a sudden, this boar..." She hates lying, particularly to her sister. Not to mention how appalling she is at it.

Dahlia sighs. "Save it. Come on, we're going home."

* * *

Nickel Peppersmith absentmindedly stares into space, his pale blond hair falling in his eyes. A cigarette hangs out of the corner of his mouth, a liquor bottle lying to his right, his shirt abandoned and hanging off the doorknob, clad only in a pair of denim pants. He somehow hopes that his mother will walk in on him like this, although he knows that this is not entirely likely to happen. Because she is, after all, dead. She's been dead for fifteen years, actually. The liquor has not been consumed, the cigarette is not lit, and his shirt... Well, there's less of an explanation for that one. In fact, the explanation lies to the left of him, passed out on the ground.

A middle-aged, somewhat homely woman, whose husband is out in the fields. Sometimes its women, sometimes its men. Either way, it's how Nickel makes a living. He doesn't really have a preference; being touched, and touching himself, is all he really gains satisfaction doing. Of course, he is perfectly good at _claiming _he enjoys everything. Like how he dumped the liquor out of the window and, when the woman awakes, will claim he drank it.

"Mmph..." The woman begins to wake up, and Nickel glances down at her. Taking a glance at the switchblade handle sticking out of his pocket, he wonders if he could possibly slit her throat. Would that bring him satisfaction? He's heard about psychopaths before, those who feel no emotion, and gain feeling out of killing. To quench the numbness inside them.

"Up." Nickel says, and gets to his feet. He turns his electric blue eyes towards her, as he reaches for his shirt, and pulls it over his head. A wide smile finds its way onto his lips, and the woman, just opening her eyes, recoils. He does not have a pleasant smile; his teeth are far too sharp, and his gums are bloody red, and his eyes are completely dead. "You should leave."

The woman is quick to dress, and skirts passed him, apparently embarrassed. The smile on his face quickly disappears, and he waits for a few seconds, before following her. Nickel has barely taken three steps out of the room, before crashing headlong into his uncle, who is fingering the leather of a purse, a smirk on his face.

The man claps a sweaty arm around his shoudlers. "Nickel, you're the best yet! Everyone who is anyone around here wants a piece of that," He winks, and slaps Nickel's behind. The blonde boy does not even react, except to relish the feeling of physical contact.

Physical contact is all that he can feel, aside from pain.

* * *

Rose-Mary immerses herself amongst the other thirteen year olds, trying to escape Dahlia. It's Dahlia's first Reaping, and she'd been clinging onto Rose-Mary's arm like a limpet, until the ineveitable separation when they'd been pushed into age divisions. Although she tries to get along with her sister, she was extremely grateful to be allowed a distance.

Heart pumping against her ribcage, Rose-Mary watches the District Escort fish around in the bowl for the females. Her whole body is tense, and her legs feel like they might collapse from under her; ever since her first Reaping, last year, she has had this reaction. It's like being lined up for slaughter, and having the whole thing glamourised.

"Rose-Mary Telesco!"

It only takes those words for her whole body to seize up, and her legs to collapse from under her.

* * *

Nickel watches as the young, skinny looking girl is supposed up to the stage. He knows he should be pitying her, and attempts to do so; he thinks about all of the painful ways she might die in the Arena, before realising that he should feel guilty for doing that too.

_I don't think I want her to die. But I can't seem to summon up emotion. _

He mentally notes that down, before turning back to the stage. There is no fear in his body, not even boredom. He feels a vague disatisfaction, almost _wanting _to experience the terror that his peers are experiencing. Amongst the eighteen year olds, he cuts an almost impressive figure: beautiful, and completely blank. He resembles a ghost.

"Nickel Peppersmith!"

Once again, this does not even bother him. Nickel registers his name, registers that everyone is looking at him, and knows that he must walk up to the stage. He feigns a look of horror, looks around frantically for help, before cutting his expression off completely and walking up to the stage.

No point in prolonging anything, right?

**DISTRICT 12**

Rowan Woods leans against the wall of Mellark's Bakery, her head tipped back, her eyes shut. She is surrounded by people, but likes to imagine that she is alone; it's not like she knows any of them, anyway. They're the townies, the ones with parents who can afford food and luxuries, and all of that. She doesn't like them, and she's pretty sure they only like her pretty face. But then again, that's better than nothing, right?

If they like her pretty face, it's certain that they'll want to feed her, so she can maintain that pretty face. Some could call Rowan stupid, and perhaps she is. Simple. But that doesn't mean she's not manipulative, and doesn't know how to get what she wants, when she needs it. If she needs something, she'll do _whatever_ she needs to to get it.

And she certainly needs food.

"Hey, Rowan, are you hungry?" _Exactly like that._ _Yes, little boy, give me your lunch... _

The son of the man who owns the sweet-shop, Lokir, is holding out a half-eaten bar of chocolate in her direction. There is a proud smile on his face, as if he knows that he's doing good by giving the _underprivileged_ his food. This would, perhaps, bother a more proud and honourable person. But Rowan, being neither of these things, smiles shyly at him, and accepts the chocolate. She takes a large, lavicious bite, licking the chocolate away from her lips with her pink, pointed tongue.

"It's good." Rowan simpers, batting her eyelashes in Lokir's direction, smirking to herself at the sight of his gaping mouth. She's gotten good at this over the years and, although some may refer to her as a "stupid slut", that doesn't change the fact that she has dinner and they don't. That's all that matters, right? Survival. If you want to get anywhere, you have to live. And Rowan certainly intends to get somewhere. She just has to change a few things about her current life, first.

And she'd found like-minded folks, too. They weren't even in her head, either! Nyx, Tanberry, Hale, and Anil. Kids at the orphanage, who knew that, in order to survive, one would have to do bad things. Like stealing from Peacekeepers, or seducing and manipulating the weak. If it had to be done, it had to be done.

Licking her lips again, Rowan took another bite out of the chocolate, and savoured the sweet taste in her mouth. Sweet like, she imagined, Lokir might taste. He would do, from all of the sweets she presumed he ate.

_Hmmph, reckon he can get me any?_

* * *

Nelson Mann is slumped against the wall, a pot of cold stew in his lap, his eyes somewhat glazed as he stares at the wall. His mind is relaxed, for once, and he feels somewhat sleepy; although it is the morning of the Reaping, he feels more at ease than he has in a long while. There is a small, half-formed smile on his handsome face, and although he should be eating the stew that one of his younger sisters cooked specially, he cannot quite summon up the energy to move a muscle. Emerson is equally relaxed, her dark hair pulled back into a high bun, her second-hand blue dress falling around her ankles. Hailey is fast asleep on the mattress that is placed on the floor.

Perhaps this is good. Since Emerson had been so nervous about the Games only an hour or so previously, and is now so comfortable with the world and herself, this could be called a good thing. After all, he practically lives to take care of his sisters. Without them, really, his life would have very little purpose. So almost everything that Nelson does is, in some way, used to help her and Hailey.

Used to be, that he was funny, witty, and always up for a laugh. That was before their family's house was burned down in a fire, and their parents- who were already neglectful enough- stole away into the night and left their children to deal with the mess. So Nelson had come into his own, and taken on the job of parent and guardian. And now, at seventeen years old, he is more like an old man than an adolescent boy.

But this is the way that things should be. How they have to be.

Taking hold of the cold, now congealed stew on his chest, Nelson gets to his feet and forces it into Hailey's hands. "Eat. Be quick; the Reaping's in half an hour." He murmurs, before heading towards the door, and pulling his coat off the stand. They live in a shack on the edge of town, that Nelson had managed to negotiate for them, and it's unpleasant and somewhat unsuitable for three children to be living in on their own.

Once again, though, that is the way that things must be.

_The world isn't a joke_, he thought to himself, as he watched his younger sisters finish their stew, and helped them into their own coats. _The world is something that must be faced. And that is how it will be. How it always will be._

* * *

Rowan stands in the crowd of seventeen year olds, eyeing the District Escort dubiously. He is unpleasant looking, and she doesn't like the sight of him. He's too colourful, amongst the greys and blacks of District 12, and should be gotten rid of. She's too busy mentally picking him apart to think about the fact that she might be getting pulled into a survival competition.

As he picks a name out the Reaping Bowl, she is suddenly pulled from her thoughts, just in time to hear a name called. Just in time to feel a shockwave of fear, a shockwave of terror that runs through her body as if she'd been electrocuted.

"Rowan Woods!"

* * *

Nelson watches his sisters carefully, barely paying attention to the attractive girl making her way up to the stage. He can see Hailey in a group of her young friends, in the viewing quarters, and lets out a small sigh of relief when he observes one of their mothers watching the young children carefully.

Now he is sure that Hailey is safe, he turns back towards the stage.

"Nelson Mann!"

Everything in his system grinds to a halt. There are two matching shrieks from the crowd, and Nelson feels all of the blood rush to his head. _This can't be happening to me... What will they- Fuck, what will I do?!_

**Favourite tributes from this chapter, and favourite tributes overall? Thank you so much for the reviews, they really motivate me to keep going, and I am extremely grateful that you guys are taking the time. Thank you so much, and apologies for the downhill spiral of quality towards the end, it's past midnight over here and I'm shattered!**


	4. The Chariots --- My Plague

**Hey guys, updates should be more consistent after this. Do you think I should continue writing in third person, or go to first? I kind of prefer third… I think I'll stick with it, if it doesn't bother you guys. My writing quality is generally better in third person, so I'll stick with that if it's all right. So yeah, enjoy the chapter. **

**Oh, and I used the word "chagrin" once during this chapter… FORGIVE ME…**

**THE CHARIOT RIDES**

"_The plague of all ages, contagious to touch,_

_The blister on my heart,_

_The horror is endless; the beast is upon us,_

_It's love that ends the world," _

Rose-Mary Telesco shifts nervously from foot to foot, her sandy blonde hair teased up at the back, her innocent eyes outlined with heavy kohl. She is a vision, for a thirteen year old, although both she and her district partner have been gaining countless, somewhat odd looks; District 11 generally houses dark-skinned people. While she is mixed-race, Nickel's skin is near translucent, and his hair is pale blonde.

She stands somewhat upright on the chariot, her small hands gripping onto the rim with all of her might: she is fearful that, when the chariot begins to move, she may have an attack of motion-sickness and fall backwards. Rose-Mary swallows, looking down fearfully in order to not make eye contact with any undesirables, and stares at her popping knuckles, instead. Her hands have left sweat marks on the metallic rim and, quickly glancing around, she uses the sleeve of her costume to wipe them away.

The two of them are wearing denim overalls. While Rose-Mary's covers her reasonably well, Nickel's barely covers anything at all. She'd initially wondered if he was ashamed to be near naked in front of thousands of people, possibly including his parents, but he didn't seem to care. Despite her attempts to make conversation, he had merely responded politely, and continued his staring into space.

"N-Nickel?" Rose-Mary's voice shakes as she speaks, and she very nearly claps a hand over her own mouth. Although he is the coldest of beings, she seeks familiarity, and he is all she has in that respect. Before she goes out there and displays herself like a prize hound, she wants to talk to somebody who understands exactly how she feels. Somebody who understands the fear pulsing through her every atom of her being.

Perhaps it is seeing the other tributes for the first time. Any one of these people in front of her, Rose-Mary reflects, could be her killer. Her shaking intensifies, and she cannot even bear to steel herself in the face of danger. She is glad not to be in District 3, surrounded by Careers, walled in from all sides by _heartless monsters_. Because Rose-Mary knows that is all that Careers are, they couldn't possibly be anything else. Even her imagination cannot take the idea that they might have feelings.

They are mere robots, without empathy or emotion. And even Nickel must be better than that since, after all, he is from _her _district. There aren't any bad people in District 11, or she would have run into them, right?

Nickel has still not replied. His bright blue eyes are narrowed, and his lips slightly pursed. Up ahead of them, at the front of the colossal hall, there is a loud groaning; the great doors are sliding open, like the jaws of a God. Rose-Mary's green eyes widen in shock as they slide into cavities created in the ceiling and the ground, both alarmed and entranced by the overwhelming technology.

_Great people must have invented this. Clever, clever people. So that must be why the Capitol is in charge, since there's nothing in the districts like this!_

The roars of the Capitolites are almost deafening, each trying to get their own affected voice heard over the many cries and caterwauls of the other citizens; screaming out for their favourites, clambering over one another to get a look at their latest offerings. Grotesque but hypnotising, Rose-Mary stares at them, as enraptured with them as they are with her. She is stunned by their alien presence, by the way that they want to see _her… _

What sounds like a purr emerges from Nickel's throat, and Rose-Mary turns to look at him. His eyes remain oddly emotionless, but his teeth are bared in what must be a smile. He is beautiful, she realises. But his beauty is synonymous with an empty shell; there is nothing behind those eyes, or that eerie "smile". For almost the first time in her life, Rose-Mary is chilled to the bone.

"Good luck." She murmurs, and realises that she is visibly shaking. Rose-Mary manages to still herself, undeniably excited, and plasters a smile onto her young face. The words she had spoken were as much to herself as they were to Nickel.

The chariot begins to shift forward, following the others in line; Rose-Mary squares her shoulders, still hypnotised with the colours surrounding her. She hitches up the left strap of her overalls, from where it had been sliding down her shoulder, and tries to ignore the nauseous feeling building up in her stomach from the motion.

Just as the two of them emerge into the Capitol streets, and are almost overwhelmed by the noise the Capitolites are making, Nickel plants his hand on her shoulder quickly. He leaves it there for only a second, and his hand is almost freezing cold; Rose-Mary does not like the sensation.

_What's that supposed to mean? Odd boy…_

* * *

Avien Featherling has an urge to leap off the chariot and into the crowd. He is not precisely sure why, and he knows that it would be unwise to attempt such a stunt, but the compulsion to do so is almost overbearing. Adrenaline fills him from head to toe, his dark blue eyes almost popping out of his skull, his smile splitting his face in half. The screams- or some of them, at least- are for _him_. People are admiring him, wanting him, willing him luck in the Arena. And although he'd been fearful of the possibility of his imminent death, Avien knows that he has never felt more alive than he does now.

It's like that the fake, feathered wings he wears as part of his costume (a simple mechanics garb), are real. Like that, at any given moment, he could flex the muscles of his back, and he would be floating off into the bright stars above the Capitol, and escape from this. Because although he is trapped like a mouse in a cage, Avien has never felt more free. Death is freedom too and, he recalls from a storybook his mother used to read to him, is merely another adventure.

He waves his hand at the crowds wildly, his pleasure in the situation not even slightly simulated, his feet pumping up and down out of sight of the Capitolites. Next to him, Isabella seems almost as excited as he is, practically leaping out of the chariot. In front of him, the District 5 tributes do not seem quite as excitable; the girl looks completely overwhelmed, and the boy is completely straight faced.

Avien cannot even fathom how they are so unenthusiastic about a situation such as this. Their faces are displayed everywhere, on titanic screens, and are even projected onto colourful glass buildings, like giants in the night. This, to Avien, feels like the start of a great adventure: the music sends sparks through his entire body, the shrieks of the crowd sends him into raptures. The sight of his face on the side of a tall, beautiful building seems almost surreal. All in all, he is completely and utterly infatuated with the Capitol.

Soon enough, they arrive at the great President's mansion: Avien's eyes are practically on stalks as the chariots settle in a formation around the building. The man himself- significantly less intimidating in person that Avien had imagined him to be- emerges onto the balcony, his greying hair stylishly combed around his rather puffy face.

Isabella prods him frenziedly and, when he turns to her, Avien realises that her eyes are shining and full of delight. "Isn't it so beautiful?" She murmurs to him, and he can't help but agree. He has been told of the evil behind this place; the corruption eating away at it like a maggot in an apple, but can't quite bring himself to believe that it is true. How could such a stunning place be so terrible? And these people, despite their alien appearance, seem decent enough. They are wasteful but, perhaps, entirely good people. They don't _seem _to be monstrous…

His smile fades a little, when he realises how seduced he has become. The Hunger Games: a battle, in which children die for the amusement of the Capitol citizens. On the outside, they are gleaming and perfect; yet still, murder has become their entertainment. They, the poor, are being killed for the regalement of the rich and privileged.

Shaking his head, his blond curls bouncing around his face, Avien desperately tries to regain that feeling of adventure that had previously been devouring him, but he is unable to do so. Looking at President Snow, the all-powerful, he feels only a sense of vague anger, and the dread that he remembers from his Reaping. This may be glamorous, and he may be rather in love with the prestige that the Capitol represents. But now, knowing that he is being paraded like an animal before his almost inevitable slaughter, he cannot summon up the energy to feel excited.

"Welcome, tributes," President Snow says, and his voice is barely above monotone. Avien wonders if the President is as excited about the Games as his loyal subjects, or if he simply sees them as yet another thing that must be done to keep the districts under control. Does he relish the killing; does it entertain him? "We welcome you."

The applause and cheers from the crowd are deafening. Avien nearly has to slam his hands over his ears, and Isabella visibly winces beside him. Like him, all of a sudden, her excitement seems to be gone; Avien wonders if she has had a similar epiphany to him. Either way, she seems somewhat crestfallen, and particularly lifeless after her previous, manic performance.

When the excitement has died down somewhat, President Snow continues, "And we wish you-" He is momentarily cut off from his speech by several screeches of anticipation from the crowd. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever _in your favour!" He surveys them almost like a proud parent, a disturbingly fatherly smile firmly in place on his puffy lips, his icy blue eyes near watery. Avien wonders just how good an actor the President is, and begins tapping his fingers impatiently on his thighs, digging his teeth into his bottom lip.

The chariots are soon hauled away for one more lap of the streets. Although the cheers are no less enthusiastic, Avien finds himself somewhat dejected. He just wants this to be over, so he can retire to his bed and try and dream away his certain future. He knows he will have to think of plans for the Arena soon, especially since training starts tomorrow, at which point he will have to think about alliances and strategy.

But for now, Avien will just have to smile and wave, like he was programmed to do.

* * *

Audrey Syrian readies herself to leap off the chariot. She is frustrated and irritable, her face contorted into an expression of righteous indignation. Beside her, Winner looks rather smug, a smirk on his heart-shaped face, his hair combed back out of his face; with the silver body-spray covering him from head to toe, his normally handsome features defined to near beauty, he looks almost statuesque.

_But that does NOT give him an excuse to be such a disgusting pervert…_

As the chariot docks, Audrey steps down from the Chariot and walks over to the sidelines, trying to calm herself down. She digs her sharp nails into her thighs, attempting to use the pain to distract herself from her anger, as she has always done. It is a surprisingly effective stress relief, and Audrey finds herself quickly calming down. She takes a deep breath, tilts her head backwards, and waits for the other prospective Careers to join her.

The District 4 tributes have not yet quite completed their lap of the streets, but the District 2 recruits are making their way over, just behind Winner. They wear golden Peacekeeper outfits, the material sheer and fitted stylishly; Audrey hadn't previously paid either of them much attention, but they look strong enough, she supposes. The girl isn't large, but looks powerfully built, and the boy is tall and muscular. What puts her off a little about the two of them, however, is the boy's smile.

The girl is unsmiling, and looks almost weary, but the boy's grin reminds her somewhat of one of the pumpkins some of the children would carve faces onto, on various festivities. His eyes are wide and unblinking and, although the smile looks genuine, there is something very, very wrong about it.

"Audrey!" Winner calls, the smile on his face almost matching the boy from 2's. "Meet Damian and Korina, from District 2. Damian and Korina, this is Audrey. She's a bitch, but she's got a heart of gold, honest."

Audrey takes a deep breath, attempts to restrain her own homicidal intentions, and smiles stiffly at the two additions. Winner moves to stand next to her, and appears to survey the Damian and Korina, his eyes particularly lingering on Korina, who looks uncomfortable. There is silence, as the District 3 tributes pull into the station.

Korina forces a smile. "So," she says, rolling her shoulders back in a way that appears oddly masculine. "When does the killing begin?" She laughs nervously and, to everyone's astonishment, it is Damian who laughs with her. While Korina's forced giggle is far too gentle, Damian's full-bellied guffaw is loud enough to attract quite a lot of attention. Audrey jumps at the sudden sound, and frowns at him, particularly when he cuts off his laughter without warning.

_It would be me who ends up with this lot, _Audrey thinks to herself. _The pervert goofball, the wannabe, and the creepy maniac. District 4 had better have some reasonable tributes, or I'm starting my own alliance of outer-district freaks..._

District 4, much to Audrey's chagrin, appear little better than her other teammates. The boy is reasonably tall, and his body seems stuck halfway between slim and muscular; what particularly puts her off, however, is the glasses in place on his nose. His demeanour is better, though, and his steel grey eyes are cold and intimidating enough. And, although Audrey knows that judging people on first appearances (particularly glasses…) is stupid, she can't help but imagine him to be unintelligent.

Mostly because she's never met an unintelligent person who wears glasses.

The girl is a little taller than the boy is, with long blonde hair and green eyes, her hips swinging tantalisingly. Audrey's jaw almost drops at her beauty, before narrowing her eyes as the girl gets a little closer. The arrogance comes off the girl in waves and, somehow, her beauty is more frightening than seductive.

Winner is the quickest to them- as he would be when attractive females are in the vicinity- and practically elbows the boy out of the way in order to reach the girl. The boy momentarily looks rather put-out by his rejection, before rolling his eyes and making his way towards the others. When he reaches Audrey, who he seems to have pegged as the leader of the group, he holds out a hand.

"Rio Seymour," he informs, squeezing her hand when she reaches out to shake. Rio lets go rather quickly, and tilts his head towards the girl, who has been waylaid by Winner. "Her name is Exotica Scott. Oh, and don't listen to a word she says, or you'll regret it. Believe me." He shoots a sweeping look at the lot of them, before settling down beside Audrey.

They wait a few moments, Winner still animatedly talking to Exotica, before Audrey decides to break up the conversation. "Winner, get over here!"

Winner looks suitably ashamed- an expression he has been learning to fake since a young age- and makes his way over to the group, Exotica walking a few steps behind him. Her eyes flit over the group, lingering on Korina and Damian in particular, before she moves to take her place in the group, standing almost uncomfortably close to Korina, who shifts awkwardly to her right.

"Well," Audrey says eventually, surveying her fellow Careers, and trying to work out how to say her next words without seeming rude. "I don't particularly care who you are or where you've come from; all that matters is now, and our survival as a unit until the time comes that individual survival matters more. Any problems with that?"

Korina and Winner both open their mouths to speak up, but Audrey cuts them off quickly, not particularly caring about any issues they might have with _her _arrangement.

"Right, good," She says, nodding, a little satisfied. She feels a flash of excitement rising up in her stomach, and tries to ignore the disconcerting smile on Damian's face, and the narrow-eyed smirk on Exotica's. "If you want to get better acquainted, do it in your own time. Betray the group, and you're dead. Understood?"

"Question." Exotica cuts in. She pauses a second, as if only to infuriate Audrey, before raising her eyebrows and continuing, "Who exactly died and made you emperor?"

Audrey almost growls. _Great, a troublemaker… _Once again digging her fingernails into her thighs in order to calm herself down, she takes a moment to reply. "I imagine that I am the most competent leader. Is there a problem with that, Exotica?"

"None at all," Exotica's voice is silky sweet. "Go on."

Audrey nods, somewhat unsatisfied. "Right then. Fine, any other questions?"

Korina is the first to reply, and speaks quickly in order to get herself heard. "What should we do in training?"

"Be intimidating."

With a rather childish frown, Korina lifts one hand to her lips and bites a hang-nail. "Shouldn't we be looking through the other tributes, in case any of them have any abili-"

"No. Any other questions?"

Nobody had any.

**This chapter is basically examining the first impressions of the Careers, and I'm hoping from several hints in the writing, that you can imagine what their individual relationships will become. Any relationships you want to see? Also, studies of Avien and Rose-Mary, and more minor ones of Nickel and Isabella. Each tribute will have a POV at some point during the Capitol chapters or, if not in the Capitol, in the Bloodbath. If there's anything you want to see your tribute do, or any things you want to happen to your tribute or any of the others, please drop me a PM. **

**Reviews are very much appreciated!**


	5. Training Day 1 --- Eat Me, Drink Me

_I was invited to a beheading today;_

_I thought I was a butterfly next to your flame;_

_A rush of panic and the lock has been raped;_

_This is only a game;_

_This is only a game._

Lukas Bright stands in the lift, completely still. His eyes are blank and somewhat cold, dressed up and ready for the first day of training. The lift is somewhat packed, and the boy from District 10 is pressed up uncomfortably close to him, but he scarcely notices. The large pack of cigarettes he had scavenged from his boss before leaving is tucked into his front pocket, making a bulge in his thick chest. He has gained several odd looks for it- in District 5, cigarettes are fairly commonplace due to the excess of chemicals- but this does not bother him.

Mim stands a little way away from him, her face green and pressed up against the side of the elevator. They have become reasonably civil to one another, almost friendly. Lukas has nicknamed her Anger-Management, due to her extreme lack of a filter; he was completely flabbergasted by her, at first, before deciding to turn it what he hopes will become a running joke.

Their eyes meet, and he curls his lip at her. Lukas does not dare to speak, as he is overly cautious about anyone gaining a single piece of information about him, but hopes that his eyes convey the fact that he is vaguely sympathetic. _Relax, Anger-Management, _Lukas thinks, looking away from her, and staring into space. _It's not they can kill you until we get into the arena. This elevator isn't gonna kill you, either. And if it does, it'll kill me too, and that's not on the agenda._

The elevator spits the tributes out into the Training Hall, where some of the keener types- Careers and the like- are already assembled around a dark-skinned woman, who appears to be in her early twenties. The woman is tapping her foot impatiently, clearly eager to get started. Some of the Careers appear equally acquisitive, staring wolfishly at their new opponents.

Lukas ignores the challenging gaze of the District 1 boy, making himself explore the room with his gaze. There is an irritation biting away at him, an irritation that threatens to bloom into white-hot anger, and he forces himself to control it. Letting go would give him an excuse to dive at the boy from District 1, but he knows better than to do so.

"Gather round, tributes," The dark-skinned woman calls over, and Lukas follows the crowd as they walk towards her. He finds himself near the back, with Mim on his right side, and the girl from District 8 on his left. While Mim appears relatively composed, the girl from District 8 is shifting from foot to foot, like she wants to move. Their eyes meet momentarily: Lukas grimaces at her, and she narrows her eyes back, before quickly averting them. She shifts across a little way away from him.

"My name is Atala, and I am your Supervisor, and Head Trainer," The dark-skinned woman interrupts his thoughts, and Lukas turns back towards her. Atala purses her lips at him momentarily, as if berating him for his lack of complete attention, before turning back to the others.

She launches into a speech, in which she reminds all of them of the rules of training, and asks them to keep as civil as possible towards one another. This last part is particularly directed towards the Careers; none of them react, aside from the boy from District 2, whose manic smile seems to widen. Lukas frowns in his direction and, for some reason, feels rather uncomfortable at the sight of him. An odd mix of electricity and bile runs through his stomach, up through his abdomen, and through his throat. He focused his attention back on Atala, ignoring the fear bubbling up inside him, and putting it off for mere intrigue.

_I'm Lukas Bright, one of the bodyguards of the biggest crime lord in District 5. I've taken on… uh… Nott. But if none of Nott's boss' gang can take me down, then these kids will be a picnic. I'm sure of it._

While he's still trying to convince himself that the chances of his death are so low that they're not even worth thinking about, Lukas suddenly realises that the tributes have dispersed around him. He stands still, with only Mim left beside him. She looks somewhat nervous, still moving her feet a little, as if jogging on the spot without actually moving a muscle.

Lukas shoots a small smile in her direction. He likes the idea of working in a team; although there's no chance that he'll stick with anyone for too long, he'd rather have the support while he still can. Not having to do everything for himself would be welcome. And all right, perhaps Mim isn't who he'd usually consider working with. Maybe she still isn't. But, considering she looks a little more approachable than he does, maybe she'll make a useful accomplice when it comes to gathering useful allies.

Mim steps towards him. "Hey. I want to work with you. But it's up to you if this deal goes down." She smiles at him somewhat weakly, and he can't help but chuckle.

"You're on." Lukas agrees. He nods at her briskly, before starting to make his way towards the swords station. He pauses for a moment, thinking, and retraces his steps backwards, to face her. "One thing, though. Stay away from me for the rest of training. I'll explain why later, okay? Get to know some of the other tributes. Walk away now like I've said something perverted." Lukas quickly twists his features into a lecherous smile, and moves uncomfortably close to her.

For a split second, Mim appears completely bemused at the sudden information, and steps away from him, her eyes widening comically. She stands completely still for a second, before scoffing, rolling her eyes, and sashaying away from him towards a group of tributes clustered around the plants station.

Lukas grins. With Mim's help with his plan, he is pretty sure he'll be coming out of this alive. And, if not, she will be. He likes her a bit, even if she is irritating, has no filter, and evident anger management problems.

He strides towards the swords station, his heart filled with a longing hope. A hope of survival.

Rio Seymour lays his weight on his back leg, and watches the other tributes around him. To anyone else, his gaze would appear cold and disinterested; this is his greatest weapon. Like an assassin, he observes those around him without being seen. Aside from the glasses, he is so average looking in this stance, that he is able to blend into the crowds with startling ease. If you put him amongst a group of boys from, say, an outer district, he would not stand out in the slightest.

His eyes linger momentarily on the boy from 5, who is walking away from his district partner with a half smirk on his face. The boy is tall and muscular, with the face of a thug: ideal potential Career, really. But, Rio certainly does not like the fact that there was a pack of cigarettes in his front pocket. The smoking habit would make him wheezy, maybe decrease his stamina, and if he has an addiction to the things, he might suffer from withdrawal in the Arena.

The girl from 7 looks pretty threatening too, although it takes Rio's eyes a few laps over the crowd surrounding the girl to realise this. She stands amongst a bevy of other tributes by the plants station, her muscular arms crossed, looking a little awkward to be in such close proximity to those whom she may soon be murdering. _Hmm, so is she a killer_? Although she is certainly powerfully built, she appears very small, and rather girlish. _Her muscles are most likely due to…_ Rio thought for a moment… _Hmph. Lifting trees? Do they do that in District 7?_

Rio makes his way back towards the other Careers, with a rather hefty sigh. He doesn't really like any of them, although he can't help but enjoy Winner's optimistic attitude, and doesn't really have anything against Korina, either. She doesn't seem at all unpleasant, simply hungry for approval, particularly from Audrey and Exotica.

The first one he finds is Damien. He's leaning against the side of the Gauntlet- a large, mechanical obstacle course- with his usual grin firmly in place. Upon noticing Rio, his smile widens.

"Hello, Damien," Rio says cautiously, moving to stand beside the taller boy. Rio reaches up, and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, as he has a habit of doing when in incommodious situations such as this. He'd rather not be talking to Damien right now, although he's certainly preferable to Exotica, or Audrey. "How are you doing this morning?" He tries to keep his tone polite.

"Oh, here and there," Damien replies, his large, light green eyes coming into focus on Rio. "It's a lovely morning, don't you think?"

Rio pauses for a second; feeling like his head is spinning, he blinks several times. Looking up at the thin, shallow windows near the roof of the Training Hall, Rio takes in the light splashing across the floor and walls. It is artificial, he is almost sure of it; this morning, when looking out of the window of his room in the Training Centre, he had registered that it was raining. The Capitol would never put a window in a room full of hormonal, rebellious teenagers. It is merely there for comfort.

He pushes his glasses up his nose once more. "Hmph. It's raining, last time I checked. The light from that window is blatantly artificial."

Damien pauses for a second, his large eyes shifting towards the window. He tilts his head to the side, as if considering it, and then turns back to Rio. "Well. Somebody's a killjoy." Damien laughs for just a little too long, before stopping abruptly, and walking away without a warning. Rio watches as the other boy strides over to the knives station, pushes his way to the front of the queue, and begins tossing knives. Although his aim is off, and he doesn't seem particularly skilled, the ferocity behind his throws is undeniable.

Raising his eyebrows, Rio turns around, only to almost leap backwards upon finding himself face to face with somebody. He steps backwards, shocked, but stills his pounding heart in time to recognise Exotica standing a few feet away from him, her arm casually wrapped around Korina's shoulders. Korina certainly looks flustered, and seems to be trying to offhandedly move away, but Exotica's grip is firm. There is a triumphant smirk on her face.

"Is there anything you want, Rio?" Exotica says sweetly. Her grip around Korina tightens, and the girl from District 2 flinches. She appears to want to move, but is only staying in place because the older girl expects her too. "_Anything_ at all?"

Rio frowns. Unlike some of the others, he has not fallen under Exotica's spell. "I'm adequate." He murmurs, and cranes up to look over the two girls' heads. He nods at them, eager to get away, and shifts to his right in order to make his escape. There is nothing he wants that Exotica could possibly give him; he knows all too well what she does. The mistress of "hell on District 4", as she has been termed by some, would certainly not keep up her part on any deal she might offer him.

He might not be any good at seeing the best in people, but he definitely understands _evil_ when he sees it.

Patchouli Kevi rifles through the berries, bringing them up to his face one after the other, and looking them over. He dislikes the hustle and bustle of training, having preferred the simple tranquillity of his room upstairs. He'd been reluctantly delighted by the shower and the disgustingly comfortable bed. Although he'd never had much of it himself, he had something of an eye for luxury, due to his occasional thieving from the more illustrious folk of District 10.

Rolling a berry around his fingers, Patch flicks through the handbook with his free hand, checking the pages for a match. When he cannot find one, he frowns, and flicks the berry back onto the table. _Looks like I won't be eating any of them, _he thinks to himself, gazing distrustfully at the red berry, now abandoned on the table.

Bored of the poisonous plants, he shoots a distrustful look at the boy from District 7- who looks rather bemused by the sudden reaction he has gained- and wanders off towards the other stations. Patch does not know exactly where he is headed, although he'd like to go to the least inhabited station, and looks around. Most of the stations are crowded and busy, and none at all are uninhabited; the girl from District 8 kneels alone by a smouldering fire, looking relatively displeased with her lack of success. There's a strange expression on her face, which he can't quite put his finger on.

Momentarily, Patch considers melting into the crowd, in order to keep away from any particular people, but shrugs to himself; he isn't afraid of the girl. She's rather small, redheaded, and looks like she's fiercely concentrating, with the side of her tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth.

He walks towards the fire-making station, fixing his eyes, instead, on the trainer in charge. Patch nods at the trainer, his stance stiff and unresponsive, and moves around to the side, as far away from the girl from 8 as he can get. Kneeling down, he picks up a handbook from the side. The pages are wrinkled with age, and a dark stain on the top right corner of the page indicates something sinister.

Patch reads through, and sets to work. He snatches up a box of matches, and is about to drop a match onto a pile of dry twigs, when he hears a hiss of shock. Twisting his head around, he looks backwards, to see the girl from District 8 staring at the fire she has just managed to light._ It must have flared up in her face_, he thinks, _which is why she reacted so dramatically. Odd girl, though… _

Her eyes are wide and shocked, and Patch swears that he can see the fire reflected in them. He watches her, intrigued, as she scampers away across the room, as fast as her legs can take her. She settles by the Gauntlet, and crosses her arms, gazing back at the fire she had created with her arms crossed in front of her, a childish expression of fear on her face.

_Well, there's a crazy one, _Patch thinks to himself, as he tries to get his own fire alight.

It is more difficult than he could have imagined, and the matches just don't seem to be working. They singe straight through the thin sticks, and hit the ground with a dry crackle, without doing anything useful whatsoever. He has just finished his sixth match, when he feels eyes upon him, and freezes up.

Patch is used to being stared at. In the gang headquarters, he'd be watched quite regularly: the big guys who guarded the door would rarely let him out of their sight. After his first escape attempt, which had ended in… in an _incident_, they'd began to watch him without fail, their batons raised, their rifles cocked. Really, Patch is surprised that he hasn't been killed off thus far. And, really, if he wasn't quite such a useful slave, he probably would have been.

But now, when he turns around, he registers that the eyes upon him are more dead than any of the guards'. The boy staring at him is beautiful, so beautiful that Patch's breath almost hitches in his throat. However, there is something strange about him. He is effeminate, almost appearing ambiguous. His bright blue eyes are empty, and cold. He stands on his toes; his feet pointed inwards, and stands as if halfway to falling forward. This appears natural. Patch avoids eye contact, somewhat irritable, and turns back to the fire that he is failing to make.

_Why are so many of the tributes this year so creepy? And that's _me _speaking, so they have to be pretty abnormal. Let's see… a girl who is afraid of fire; a pretty-boy who stares at people; a Career who never stops smiling; and let's not forget the girl from District 6, who seems to have some kind of twitch…_

_Hey. Maybe I don't stick out so badly, after all. I wonder how many of them are going to go completely insane in the arena… Killing people, not my deal. Not my deal at all. But self-defence, against people who are trying to kill me?_

_Because nobody wants to die, right? Nobody wants to die?_

**Next chapter, Spectre, Charlie, Rowan, and Hiroko will probably be the ones with POVs. No promises as of now, but that's what I'm thinking. Hey, please review if you are reading. I know this sounds like begging, but a lot of work goes into these chapters, and I really would appreciate feedback. I'm not saying "GIV MEH 20 REVEWS 4 EVRY CHAPTR OR I WONT UPD8", but reviews are certainly appreciated.**

**Hope you enjoyed the chapter :D**


	6. Training Day 2 --- Mother I'm Here

_I set my sail; fly the win, it will take me,_

_Back to my home, sweet home._

_Lie on my back._

_Clouds are making way for me._

_I'm coming home. Sweet home._

**SPECTRE WISHART, DISTRICT 3**

Spectre Wishart fiddled with the controls of the machine; his hands were splayed over the polished metal, his slightly padded thumbs pressing against the buttons, and his onyx eyes fixed on the screen. He'd never come across such technology before, and the fact that it was being used to train tributes in the art of recognising poisonous plants rather irked him. If he had control of such technology, Spectre knew he'd put it to actual, good use.

_Or perhaps the Capitol folk do use it for such things_, Spectre thought to himself, as he turned his attention away from the screen for a split-second, in order to glance at the indent in the wall where the Gamemakers sat. _Although waste like this is deplorable. _He turned his attention back to the screen, and sorted a mysterious looking red berry into the "edible" section. There was a loud, blaring sound, and a skull flashed onto the screen momentarily.

**YOU'RE DEAD. **

Rolling his eyes at the screen, and his supposed death (Spectre was marginally certain that he was not, indeed, dead. Or perhaps life as he lived it was an illusion in itself, and he was simply under the impression he was alive?), he stepped back away from the machine, his hands flitting from the surface. He shot it one last, longing look, before jumping down from the podium upon which the machine was placed, and panning his eyes around the room.

All of the tributes were busy doing something or another, he realised. Some of them were engaged in conversation, and a few of them seemed almost intimate with one another, in an odd way. This made Spectre frown; how could they be so frivolous in a situation of such danger? He felt an odd, pulling dislike for all of them. Like he was some kind of superior being, immune to their emotions, like love and hate.

Spectre felt a hand on his arm, and almost leapt out of his own skin, his dark hair whipping around with his face as he turned to his left. He supposed that the sudden movement had frightened his assailant, because they let out a rather high-pitched squeak, and ducked backwards.

Once both tributes were re-focused, Spectre realised that it was Skylar- the female tribute from his District- who had interrupted him. He was somewhat neutral towards her, as she was far too small to be a threat, but he found himself rather appreciating her generally quiet, melancholy atmosphere. While he was dubiously silent, she was more approachable, and certainly friendlier. And while Spectre gave off an air of blankness, Skylar seemed more politely the way she was.

"Hello." Skylar said, and her voice seemed rather low compared to her previous squeak of shock. Her reddish-brown hair was tugged out of her face, and it seemed to Spectre that she might be uncomfortable with its tightness. "I was wondering…" She cut herself off at what he supposed might have been his blank expression. For a moment, Spectre wondered if she would merely run away from him, as many others might do. His reputation tended to precede him, after all.

"_That mental Wishart boy..."_

"_I saw that crazy Spectre kid today. He was mumbling to himself…"_

"_Bunch of crackpots, that entire family…"_

"_Should be put down…"_

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Spectre realised that he should probably talk if he wanted her to proceed. Skylar was shifting about uncomfortably, clearly wanting to get away from him. Despite the fact that he knew she had only the best intentions, he felt a spike of anger run through him. _Make your point, already…_

Skylar let out a deep breath. "I was wondering if you wanted to hang out, for a while. N-not like allies. Just so we're not alone, you know?"

That hit Spectre quite hard. He liked being alone. Opening his mouth to decline, he gathered the words up within him… and wilted. She wasn't so bad- not ally material, of course, but not so bad. Why not indulge her a little?

"Sure."

**ROWAN WOODS, DISTRICT 4**

Over on the other side of the room, Rowan Wooded played with an axe. Her long, fine-boned fingers fluttered over the metal of the handle, leaving smudges behind where she touched. For some reason, she was almost enthralled by the gleaming of the axe. In District 12, it was so very rare to see anything shiny and beautiful. Because, although she was perfectly aware of the horrors this axe would commit, Rowan barely cared.

She looked up from the weapon, and manipulated her fingers carefully, balling her fist somewhat inexpertly around the handle. Although Rowan had no idea how to use the axe, and was not even holding it correctly, she felt an odd affection for the weapon.

_Axes. I reckon I'll use axes. Not that difficult to use, just swing 'em. And when you swing 'em just right, and you hit the enemy, then you've just killed somebody. You're that one step closer to winning, ah?_

Killing… Was not precisely her style. The idea of causing pain did not appeal to her all that much; physical pain, anyway. Survival was going to be her main focus, and whatever she had to do in order so survive was simply necessary. Hopefully other people would just kill one another, to spare her the effort and possible psychological pain of doing so.

Looking up from her weapon, Rowan glanced around the room, her eyes flitting over the other tributes. She was searching for a possible ally. A male would probably be out of the question; she was manipulative, sure, but she didn't want anybody bigger than her. Anybody who held a physical advantage over herself- or a sexual advantage, in the case of the males- was completely ticked off. _No way. No advantages. No taking. _A female, then? Yes, she would feel safer with a female companion, perhaps one who was similar to how she was. An epic tag-team.

_But I'll be the dominant one, the one people really fear. Making a name for myself, and all. 'Cause only one gets out, right?_

Her eyes focused on the girl from 7, who was a few metres away from her at the hand to hand station, pummelling a dummy with surprising force for such a delicate looking girl. For a moment Rowan was surprised- and somewhat creeped out- before noticing the almost obscenely large muscles almost popping out of the girl's sleeves.

"A boxer?" Rowan wondered aloud, raising her eyebrows. She was met with an odd look from the boy from 9, who was sitting a little way away from her, eyeing up the swords station, where several gleaming scythes were also situated. She winked in his direction, barely suppressing a smirk at his double-take (_can't believe it, ah, pretty boy?_). Then, Rowan started walking towards the girl from 7, pushing her hair back over her shoulders.

It took her a few moments to attract the attention of the girl from District 7, but once she had achieved it- still clutching the axe- Rowan smiled serenely in her direction, and batted her eyelashes. Naturally, they weren't particularly thick, but she'd found some strange cosmetic in the bathroom on her floor that had volumised them to an almost startling extent.

The girl kept training, occasionally shooting a confused look in Rowan's direction; she seemed more unnerved by the fact that she was being watched than anything else. But Rowan, who had never precisely been good at subtlety, continued watching; her arms crossed, her chin tilted challengingly.

Eventually, the girl from District 7 grew bored, and pulled off her mitts, dropping them to the floor with an offhand glance. Then, her eyes focused on Rowan, her brows knit, she walked over.

"Why are you watching me?" The girl asked. She was quite a bit shorter than Rowan, but a great deal more physically intimidating. She let out a loud, remarkably unladylike snort. "You gay? 'Cause I'm the most asexual person in the world. Nobody at all, but I'm definitely not gay. I'd appreciate it if you stared at someone else. It's kinda unnerving."

Rowan was unsure whether or not she should be offended, and chose to bare her teeth in a smile. _Absolutely perfect. Asexual, smaller than me, a good fighter, and quite pretty. Hmph, maybe there's hope for me yet._ For a second, Rowan considered restarting her shy act, in order to manipulate this girl… But she didn't feel like it. Keeping it going throughout the Games would be taxing, and near to impossible. "I'm Rowan Woods, District 12. Straight as they come. And I'm interested in an alliance."

For a second, Rowan was certain that this girl was going to laugh in her face, and return to beating the life out of the dummy. Her face contorted into a near smile, and although she removed it quickly, Rowan caught sight of it. "An alliance? That's interesting."

Rowan chuckled dryly. "That it is. So, you interested?"

"Huh, maybe. I don't know. What've you got to offer?"

That made her think. For a few seconds, Rowan racked her thoughts, trying desperately to come up with something feasible. Then, it hit her. The lie hit her. "You'll have to wait and see." She said slowly, and a small smile came onto her face. She flexed her fingers around the axe, in order to draw the girl's attention to them.

The girl didn't look too convinced, but a new wave of respect came onto her face at the sight of the axe. Perhaps it was the fact- although Rowan was oblivious to this- that it was against the rules for tributes to be carrying around weapons outside of the training stations, but the girl looked somewhat impressed.

Bringing her hand to her face, she spat into it. Rowan frowned at the movement, before the girl reached out the hand she had spat into towards her. "I'm Charlie Zion," Charlie said, with a gruff smile. "Spit and shake, and we're allies."

Momentarily, Rowan considered refusing; the idea of merging her spit with another person's was rather disgusting. She didn't really want to touch this other girl's spit, anyway… But she could go and wash her hands immediately after, right?

With an awkward grimace, Rowan spat into her own hand, and tenuously reached it forward. It took Charlie grabbing her hand for their skin to actually meet, and Rowan winced at the contact.

"Allies."

**WINNER SINCLAIR, DISTRICT 1**

Winner Sinclair gripped onto the sleek handle of his sword, as he carefully manoeuvred himself around the dummy. His dark brown eyes, usually full of laughter, were deadly serious. Although Winner certainly spent most of his time playing around, he knew that he must pay attention while in training. After all, he wasn't the best with weapons; compared to some of the other Careers, he was a novice.

Taking a vicious swipe at the side of the dummy, he dodged around it, bringing the sword swinging upwards to hit at the head. The thin blade lodged into the dummy's neck and stuck there, with Winner still gripping onto it. He let out a grunt of frustration and, placing one foot on the dummy's "thigh", he jerked the sword back out again.

Gritting his teeth in concentration, his usually brown skin turning a rather unpleasant shade of red, he brought his muscular arm back, and drove the sword forward once more. Winner was relentless as he showered careful blows upon the dummy, his face screwed up in concentration.

He stopped only when he heard a gravelly laugh behind him. And, although Winner could not see the person who was laughing- nor did he recognise the voice, which was a large factor in recognising them in advance- he felt a flash of anger. Turning around, the sword still in hand, he readied himself to do what he had never really tried before: intimidate somebody.

But it was not some outer district fool, who presumed that he was the weakest link of the Careers.

It was Damien; his lips were pulled into their usual smile, this time ever widened by his laughter. Winner briefly wondered if it ever made his face ache, before lowering the sword that he realised he was brandishing.

"Why so serious?" Damien asked, his voice low and husky. Without saying another word, he stepped forwards and gently pried the sword from Winner's hands, running the blade over in his own, calloused hands. A beam of light shot off the metal, momentarily blinding Winner. "I'd be _elated_ if I were you. Making the most of what you have left, and all."

Winner flinched. The implication that he would die quickly was one he had been dealing with from very early on, especially from Audrey. And now, some of the others were echoing her snide words. It hurt his feelings, his pride, and, well, his chances. If they thought he was weak, then they wouldn't waste any time bumping him off.

_Easy kill, don't you know…_

"Don't count your chances too soon, Damien," Winner said, his tone as cool as he could make it. There was a slight wobble to his voice when he spoke, however; a tremor of nervousness in his brash words. "You know why I was called _Winner_? Because I'm bred to win!"

"_Who _is bred to _what_?" Korina interrupted the conversation. Her hair was wild and tangled, a gleam of excitement in her eyes. Even as she stood with them, she seemed so full of energy that she could not keep still. And despite her best efforts to not move, she was fidgeting madly. "Your parents called you Winner because you are a winner?" Korina looked like she was going to burst out laughing. However, before her lips could part, she took a deep breath and steeled herself, squaring her shoulders. "Sounds like a lie, to me."

When she said this last part, she glanced over her shoulder to where Exotica and Audrey sat a few metres away, conversing. Exotica had a smirk on her face, and her arm was resting casually on Audrey's thigh; Audrey looked extremely irritable, and kept slapping her hand away. Korina briefly looked like she was pining, before turning back, and nodding, as if to reinforce her point.

"Only _killers _can win," Damien said. There was a sadistic gleam in his eyes. "Could you really kill someone? Feel their blood flowing over your hands, watching the light fade from their eyes, knowing that it is _because of you _that they are never going to see their families again? Never live to see their significant other, never have a family, never live their lives?"

"Stop." For once, Winner felt distressed. He turned to Korina, in search of a helping hand, but she was stone-faced. For a moment, he saw a glimmer of pity in her eyes, but it was quickly erased. "You're trying to mess with me."

Damien let out what could have been a giggle. "You have to fight for yourself; no one's going to save you. That's just life, right?_"_

And with that, he walked away.

**Sorry for the crap, short chapter here. They will be getting longer and more consistent from now on, but this was basically out in order to let you all know that I'm not ditching this story, so it was done in a bit of a hurry. Next update will be out a lot faster, I promise. **


	7. After Dark

**Can I just say, that the romance in this story- no matter how many couples I might imply- is _minimal as hell. _These are hormonal teenagers right here, some of whom are completely mentally unbalanced. People have been PMing me to ask to ship their characters with people such as Exotica, Aela and Nickel, and I'm thinking that'll be difficult. I sort of ship one of the characters with Nickel already (as you'll see in this chapter), but it's not really romantic. He's not capable of romantic feelings. Basically, he's an overgrown baby.**

***IMPORTANT***

**I did the maths, and I'm going to have to add in more Capitol chapters in order to get a POV in for everyone. So-o-o, here is After Hours No. 1. After the Training Assessments and Scores(next chapter), it'll be Interviews, After Hours No. 2, then the Bloodbath. If that doesn't add up, I'll sort it out... Probably...**

**REEL AUTIN, DISTRICT 9**

"I'm going out." Was all that Reel Autin said, when he emerged from the darkened room that he normally inhabited. Hiroko Ren, his district partner, flinched at his sudden appearance; she had been sprawled out on the sofa, her eyes glued to the city-scape outside the large window, seemingly deep in thought.

Their mentors and district escort had retired to their rooms long ago, and the moon was high in the sky. The stars twinkled dubiously, and the fluorescent lights of the city down below were blinding, and far too bright. Although it could have been called beautiful, it felt warped to Reel. Wrong. The moon was too white, too full, too perfect.

_It's like we're in some kind of enclosed space... Weird..._

"You're going out? Hiroko asked, her tone somewhat intrigued. He paused for a second, before shrugging in her direction. Reel didn't really mind Hiroko, but he hated the fact that she used to give the Peacekeepers such a hard time. _They're only doing their jobs... _Personally, he liked her. But he didn't appreciate her lack of respect for authority. Which seemed somewhat hypocritical- to him at least- since he was satisfying his wanderlust by going on a late night stroll. "Can I come?"

Reel shot an apologetic smile in her direction. "I want to be on my own," he replied, as he hitched a soft, red hooded jacket over his shoulders, pulling the hood up over his short brown hair. "I want to reflect, you know? It feels stuffy in here. I want to think about what I'm doing in the Games, maybe talk to myself a little, you know?"

"You shouldn't. It'll make you feel worse."

"Won't make a difference, really." Reel shrugged. He let out a little chuckle. "Unless, the Careers go on a midnight stroll and find me, in which case I'm in for a world of pain. I'll look half deranged talking to myself."

Hiroko giggled, covering her mouth with both hands- a habit she could not seem to get rid of, despite the amount she was mocked for it- and relaxed back against the sofa, her silky dark hair splayed out over it. "I might go for a walk myself, if I wasn't so tired."

"Maybe I'll go again tomorrow. Come with me then? I like you." The words came out a little oddly, and Reel almost clapped a hand over his mouth. At the look on his face, Hiroko giggled again, and Reel shook his head. "Not like that. We're in a death tournament, and I'm not so sappy. You aren't my type at all."

Hiroko hovered for a second, seemingly unsure whether to be insulted or amused. She grinned wryly. "Sure, sure. Have fun wandering around and talking to yourself, rebel."

Reel walked towards the door to the elevator, and opened it. He clenched his teeth as he pulled the handle down, in fear that an alarm of some kind might go off, but nothing happened. His bare feet padding against the thickly carpeted ground, Reel walked into the elevator, and shut the door behind him. Compared to the low, soothing lights of the apartment, the elevator lights were stark.

He punched in the training floor code, before moving his hand away as if burned, and sidling over to the other side. Reel leaned against the wall as the elevator went into motion, tapping his foot against the ground as he watched bright lights appear in front of him as he went down, passing the other floors.

_Is anyone else out? What if I really do run into any Careers? Will they hurt me?_

Despite himself, Reel felt his heart begin to pump a little harder. Involuntarily, his whole body went into a quick, strange spasm of fear. He quickly pulled himself out of it- Omri told him it was merely someone "walking over his grave"- and continued staring at the flashing lights on the wall, his jaw clenched and firm. _Even if I do run into any Careers, _he thought, tapping his foot restlessly against the ground. _I'll get 'em. I'm taller than most of them, anyway, and bigger than some. Maybe they're better with weapons than us, but some of us in the outer districts have a chance... The boy from District 8 looks tough, real tough. And the girl from District 7, if you look at her properly. Maybe we actually have a chance this year?_

There was a loud, piercing **ding **as the elevator hit the ground floor, and spat Reel out into what he presumed was some kind of administration office. The lights were still on, and were far brighter than he might have liked- and although the place was completely empty, he felt a strange foreboding as he took a step further into the room.

It was a reasonably large room, and seemed to serve as a lobby, too. All of the walls were made of glass, and they were carefully shaped into what seemed like a dome, mixed with an oversized beehive. There were several corridors leading off it, as well as two staircases, presumably leading to more long, winding corridors. In one corner of the room, there was a closed café, with the peppermint red and white stools screwed to the ground in front of a bar. There was a long desk that took up the other side of the room, separated by clear glass into what seemed like cubicles. Dozens of comfortable looking chairs were scattered around the room.

"Hey!"

Reel almost leapt out of his skin at the sound and turned, wide-eyed, in the direction where it had come from; it was over towards the café. On three of the red and white stools- _how could I have overlooked them?!- _sat the girl from District 10, the boy from District 12, and the boy from District 7. The girl had some kind of odd, seemingly carbonated drink in front of her, and was sipping it though a pink plastic straw, and the boys were drinkless.

"Hey, you're from District 9, right?"

The boy from District 12 was talking to him, and Reel was still frozen in fear. The shock of being confronted by other tributes, people that he would be pitted against in a competition of life and death, was terrifying. And these people, were they allies? Would they join together in a fight against him?

"I d-don't want any trouble," Reel said, and was surprised to find that he was stuttering, his voice higher pitched than usual. He coughed awkwardly, and tried again. "I don't want any trouble."

They were all smiling at him, for some reason. Not overly friendly, more cautiously than anything else, but at least they didn't seem aggressive.

The boy from 7 was the one to speak next. "Neither do we. We ain't looking for trouble. Just for some likeminded folk. You want to join?"

Reel didn't quite know how to reply. And when he did, he was so quiet that he had to repeat himself, which was extremely rare for him. "Sure. I guess."

**NICKEL PEPPERSMITH, DISTRICT 11**

Nickel Peppersmith leant against the smooth metal railings, staring out over the Capitol. Even from where he stood, high up on top of a building, he could hear the wild nightlife. Despite the distance, the flashing lights left blurry imprints on his vision. The blotches of colour moving around there seemed like ants to him, small and equally squishable. Reaching out his left arm, he scissored his fingers childishly, and pretended that he was killing the Capitolites. Squishing them, banging their heads together...

_Is their blood colourful too? Blue, and red, and yellow, and green, and all the colours of the rainbow?_

But, to Nickel's confusion, he didn't seem to gain any satisfaction out of it. His long, thin fingers seemed babyish hanging in mid-air as he played make-believe, and his eyes suddenly glazed over.

Corpse's eyes.

_Do I want to kill people? It's not the right thing, is it? It's bad. Ba-a-ad. Because people feel pain... _For some reason, Nickel felt a flash of jealousy. Pain was something, was it not? Something that he could feel. It wasn't like he was invincible, or anything. He could feel pain, couldn't he? Using his right hand, he pinched the skin of his left forearm, just to prove it to himself. He winced. _Ouch. That was stupid. Touch isn't all good, that's what everyone says. _

"Uhm..." The voice that came from behind him was feminine, and took him by surprise. Nickel barely contained himself, and clenched both fists, digging his nails into his cold palms in order to stop himself reacting. He should have been feeling fear and, although his heart sped up and a sheen of sweat appeared on his pale forehead, his thoughts flatlined.

He turned around and, to his surprise, found himself face to face with the girl from District 2. Her dark brown hair was pulled up into a ponytail, and her freckled face seemed a little anxious, although she wore a stony mask. She crossed her arms, leaning slightly towards him. It would have been intimidating, if she wasn't half his size.

"What are you doing up here, District 11?" District 2 asked, and Nickel realised that he couldn't remember her name. What was it, Jemima? He mentally cursed himself for not paying attention during the Reapings.

Nickel leaned his back against the railings, leaning dangerously far over the edge. The girl from District 2's breath seemed to hitch, and she took a step forward, but stopped herself at the last minute. She sniffed haughtily. "So, then?"

"Can't sleep." Nickel shrugged, not really bothered with her. It was true; he couldn't sleep. He'd always had difficulty sleeping, when he was hungry for human touch. Physical contact, which was one of the only things he could feel, aside from pain. And he didn't like pain, so it was certainly a last straw. Touching Rose-Mary was disgusting on too many levels, considering he was eighteen years old: a man. Most of these people were children.

"It's the Training Assessment tomorrow," The girl from District 2 murmured, more to herself than to him. Nickel didn't bother looking in her direction, jumping up onto the railings, and resting his rear on the sharp metal. The tips were rather painful, digging into his behind, but he almost relished the pressing pain. _It didn't hurt like ripping did, or cutting, or pulling. _"If you want to get a good score, you sleep, District 11."

"Right."

They both remained silent. The girl from District 2 seemed to be fidgeting, as if both wanting to leave, and say something more. She walked over to the railings, as far away from him as she could get, and tapped her fingernails against the sharp tips. "I'm Korina Mawer." She said all of a sudden, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Her tone was brash, her voice gravelly; Nickel was no great judge of character, but he was almost certain she was putting it on. There was something about her somewhat meek appearance, and the low, hoarse voice that went with it.

Nickel paused for a second, unsure if he wanted to reply. He swung his legs back and forth, hanging his head back over the seemingly endless abyss. His blonde hair hung back, his eyes huge and mesmerised by the bright stars, his mouth hanging a little open. "Nickel." He replied, and swung back completely, his torso disappearing, his legs still gripping onto the metal.

When he came back up, his hair was messy and tangled over his forehead, and there was a wide, wolfish grin on his face. _Adrenaline. I can feel adrenaline. I can feel adrenaline! _His heart was still pounding from the experience of hanging over the Capitol, only his legs holding him in place. His heels digging into the railings, Nickel hopped down, and rolled his shoulders back. "I like that." Nickel said, his childish grin widening ever further, stretching his face out like a Jack O' Lantern. "It's a rushing feeling. I've never felt it before."

Korina stared at him. She looked a little confused, noticeably anxious, and also slightly as if she might burst out laughing. Slamming both hands over her mouth, she tried to choke down the inevitable laughter. As she laughed, Nickel's smile faded, and became a small frown. He crossed his arms and observed her carefully, narrowing his eyes. When people laughed at other people, the proper reaction was for the person being laughed at to become irritable.

Eventually, when Korina stopped giggling, Nickel dropped the expression off his face, and went back to his usual blank look. He observed her momentarily. Then, he said, "Why are you here?"

This question seemed to take her by surprise. She blustered for a few seconds, apparently unsure of what to say, and blew out a long breath. "N-no reason, I..." Korina stopped herself. She looked down at the ground, and her expression suddenly became more sombre. It seemed like she was having an internal battle with herself, although Nickel didn't recognise this. After a little while, she let out a shaky breath, as if making a huge choice. Then, she said, in a voice so quiet that Nickel could scarcely hear her, "My district partner scares me. He's... I don't know... I-I don't want to be in the same apartment as him anymore, Nickel. I heard things about him. Bad things, in m-my..."

All of a sudden, Korina shook her head, and her expression visibly hardened. She jutted her chin out imperiously, and tossed her thick ponytail back. In a matter of seconds, she went from a frightened little girl to a Career. A merciless, bloodthirsty Career.

Of course, Nickel did not understand this. Her sudden change in emotion was odd. He didn't like it.

"You won't tell anyone about this," Korina said, all of a sudden. She was hard once more; a cold, hard pillar. _A selfish bitch. _She took a deep breath, trying to maintain eye-contact. "This never happened. Mention it to anyone, and I-I'll..."

"Okay." Nickel said, and forced a wide, unpleasant grin onto his own face, much to Korina's bemusement.

"Right."

**MIM FUZE, DISTRICT 5**

Mim Fuze narrowed her eyes at her district partner, tilting her head to one side with a vaguely suspicious look. Although Lukas had told her his plan the previous night, and had come up with a rather good story to go with it, she wasn't quite sure if she liked it. She had spent the entire day in training mulling over the possibilities of her possible imminent betrayal, and had ended up tripping over on the Gauntlet, kneeing herself in the face, and humiliating herself in front of everyone. The boy from District 8 and the girl from District 4 had been laughing hardest, and Mim had ended up having to be patched up. She now had a large, unsightly bruise on the left side of her face.

They were sat in her room; Mim was leaning against the colourful headboard of her bed, and Lukas was sat in a comfortable armchair, situated a couple of metres or so away from her. A lit cigarette illuminated his face, sending smoke spiralling up towards the ceiling. "We'd make a good team. Get some people together, and take out the Careers as a group. Knock off the bigger ones, and take our chances from there."

"You make it sound as if it's something simple to kill somebody," Mim replied quietly. It was the first thing she'd said in quite a while, which was surprising for her; usually, she would be full of smart remarks, that he would rebuff goodnaturedly, and continue on his ambitious rants. She tilted her head back, and narrowed her eyes at him. "You used to be part of a gang. So you killed people. Right?"

Lukas thought for a second. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, and brought it down to his side, blowing several smoke rings out of his lips. His face remained completely stoic. "Never actually killed a person. I beat people up for money, for Mr. Arsenio. Never any need to kill... But I'm sure it'll be fine. My dad was a murderer."

He said this casually, as if it was completely normal, and Mim let out a low giggle. He brought the cigarette up to his lips again, illuminating his face; there was a smile attempting to fight its way onto his face, and he was barely concealing it. "What?" Lukas asked, recognising the fact that she was laughing. "It's a very serious business."

_I can't tell how much you're making up, Mr. Bright, _Mim thought to herself, stifling another laugh. She kept a faux serious look on her face, and her mind began to spin as she thought to herself. Tapping her fingers on her thighs, she drummed out a little rhythm. _He's not trustworthy. I think he's manipulative, and he's a thug. But he's strong. Is it worth the risk?_

_I'll have to think about this a little more._

Mim battled with her own thoughts, whilst pretending to listen to Lukas talk in short sentences about his plans. Some of them were intelligent, others were completely foolish; sometimes, Mim wondered if he understood that some of them were completely impossible, or if he was just messing with her head. Playing mind games.

With this boy, nothing would really surprise her.

Suddenly, Mim realised that her eyelids were drooping. It was too late for this sort of thing- past midnight, certainly- and she didn't like the fact that Lukas was keeping her awake with his ranting. She let out a yawn, and rubbed her eyes with the back of her arm, wincing as her arm hit the bruise on the side of her face.

"Lukas, I'm really tired. Can we continue this in the morning?" She said, letting out another yawn.

For a moment, Lukas looked like he was going to refuse. He took his cigarette out of his mouth, and observed her calmly. Then, he got up from the chair, walked over to her bedside table, and stubbed it out on her empty mug, which had once contained hot cocoa, that he himself had brought her. Now, it contained cigarette ash.

"Don't let the bed-bugs bite." He said shortly, nodding at her, as he made his way towards the door. Mim watched him leave drowsily, reaching down to her soft blankets, and pulling them up to her chin. He was still hovering by the door, searching through his pockets. For a second, it seemed like he'd never leave. But then, Lukas found what he was searching for, tipped his head back, and popped it into his mouth, swallowing after he was done.

"Night, night." Lukas murmured- for some reason, he sounded a lot drowsier than before- and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him gently. Mim heard him shambling down the corridor, his feet dragging on the carpet, before there was the sound of a door opening and shutting.

_What did he just do? What is he doing? _

Immediately, her heart began to pound faster, almost hurting her ribcage. She wiped her eyes with her hand, rubbing the dust out of them, and felt sleepier than ever. However, when she attempted to close her eyes, it seemed that she couldn't quite keep them shut. They kept fluttering, until she eventually chose to keep them open, staring up at the ceiling.

_Shit! What's going on?! _

**After this chapter, Mim and Lukas both get increasingly badass. I think you're going to like what I have planned for those two, and their "associates". So yeah, I'm up at 2:30am. Pretty intense insomnia.**


	8. Training Scores --- The Pretender

**Finally, I am finished with volunteering, and will actually have bloody TIME to update. If I haven't updated in a while, check my profile; I regularly keep you guys updated on there. Okay, I hope you enjoy the chapter. Channelling my inner Hannibal Lector at the Damien part at the end. **

___Keep_ you in the dark,

_You know they all pretend,_

_Keep you in the dark, _

_And so it began..._

**ISABELLA DENNIS, DISTRICT 6**

Isabella Dennis is running the Gauntlet. Her fists pump energetically either side of her, her lips curled back in concentration; she moves quickly, in order to avoid tripping. Sweat beads on her forehead, and she lets out a strangled grunt as she bends her knees and soars through the air towards the next landing panel. When her feet make connection with the somewhat slippery metal, she digs her heels into it, and leans backward a little way.

Over the last few days, she's spent almost all of her time on the Gauntlet. Due to her lack of proficiency with weapons, she has decided to embrace her true talent: agility. Well, perhaps she is not as talented as some of the others might claim to be. But so what? Gaining herself a good training score is all that matters and, really, this is the only way that it might be possible.

Spreading her arms out, as she's seen Avien do whilst on this course, she concentrates on what he'd told her. _Imagine that you're flying_. Shutting her eyes momentarily, an adrenaline-pumped smile appears on her face, and she opens them again as she flies through the air, towards the next podium.

Are they close, her and Avien? She isn't entirely sure. When she'd first seen him, she'd been shocked at his age, for one thing; sixteen years old, him? She'd been readying herself to pity a weak twelve year old, not a potentially dangerous sixteen year old boy.

"Gah!" Isabella's toes connect with the side of the next podium. She hears a crack at the impact, and a bruising pain hits her. _Be the bird, be the- _Her eyes widen as she falls backwards, and she finds the Gamemakers in her line of sight. A flash of anxiety hits her: they don't seem to be paying any attention to her at all. What they are doing appears… curious.

Eating like gluttons. Talking and laughing with one another; not a one of them is even looking in her direction, unless to shoot a fleeting, rather unamused glance at her. As Isabella falls backwards, the toes of her right foot aching, she watches them. She's interested. So interested, in fact, that she completely forgets she is falling, and her head smacks against the ground.

There are several light chuckles from the Gamemakers lounge as Isabella sits up, rubbing the back of her head. Her head is spinning a little, and she feels stunned, but there is no true damage. Never the less, she childishly checks her own pulse, not fully convinced she hasn't died. If she _had _died, would the Gamemakers have laughed?

"Probably." She mumbles to herself, before clambering to her feet, and shooting a cheery smile in the direction of the Gamemakers. She skips over to the centre of the room, acting like she hadn't slipped off the Gauntlet, and smiles and nods at them. Those who are looking at her frown, confused by her actions. "Isabella Dennis, District 6." She repeats cheerfully, before letting out a small giggle- possibly due to her head injury- and skipping out of the room.

Once she reaches the waiting room, she staggers, gripping onto the wall with one hand. She hangs her head and, her hand pressing into the wall, breathes deeply. The bruise on the back of her head aches, and her stomach hurts; she feels like she might vomit.

A hand grips her shoulder almost painfully hard, and Isabella glances sideways, eyes watering with pain, to look at the perpetrator. One of the Peacekeepers stands over her, face impassive. "You go out the other way." He says coolly, his tone monotone and almost robotic. Hand still on her shoulder, he tugs half-heartedly, but she does not yield. "Miss, I'll have to insist you come with me."

He tugs again, this time harder, and Isabella lurches. She tries to fight him off feebly, but as he tugs a little harder, she feels a burst of nausea.

"Hey!" A voice breaks into her thoughts. She hears shouting, barely registering it, and it takes her a few moments to register the fact that the hand has removed itself from her shoulder, and she has fallen to the ground. Her face hits the ground, but she barely feels any pain, her vision blurring. She is vaguely aware of something going on behind her, and feels an urge to get up and investigate it, but cannot seem to move.

Eventually, Isabella feels a hand on her shoulder again, and braces herself; however, unlike her expectations, she is pulled gently. When she is back on her feet, albeit still a little shaky, she looks around to find herself uncomfortably close to somebody's chest. _A boy's chest, definitely not a girl's chest- unless it was a very flat cheste-_Isabella breaks off her thought, barely suppressing another dry giggle.

"You all right, little lady?" She recognises the boy from District 12, who towers over her. He speaks gently and, when she cranes up, she can see a small smile on his face. His stance is relaxed and, although he's rather average, he reminds her of a ginormous stuffed toy. "You look sick."

Isabella shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant, and almost falls over again. She heaves, clutching her stomach, and a few of the other tributes back away warily. The boy from 12 looks like he might back away, his eyes widening in shock, but he stands his ground. Also standing her ground is the girl from District 9. She has her head tilted to one side, her fingers drumming restlessly on her thigh. _I feel you, sister._

"Are you going to be sick?" She asks Isabella somewhat unnecessarily. "What did they _do _to you?"

There are a few mumblings as she says that. The Peacekeepers lining the walls are looking rather tense at this sudden, strange unity; the one who had previously gripped Isabella moves back towards her, grasping his baton. Behind his helmet, his eyes are narrowed.

"Come on. Now."

She complies, leaving a confused community in her wake.

_Send in your skeletons,_

_Sing as their bones come marching in,_

_Again. _

_They need you buried deep,_

_The secrets that you keep are ever ready,_

_Are you ready?_

**MASON MAVERICK, DISTRICT 8**

As the girl from District 6 leaves the room, the tributes break into discussion. Most of what they say is undirected, although some of it seems to be sent in the vague direction of their respective district partners. The Peacekeepers all remain still, appearing untroubled by this new development, although some of them grip their batons a little more tightly than before, fearing retribution.

Mason's eyes flit around the room, watching carefully. He's interested in the proceedings around him, very interested indeed. Although these tributes do not intrigue him, what they are saying certainly does. Words of defamation; slander, he tells himself. Winning the games is an honour… isn't it?

Truth be told, he's doubted that for a while. Perhaps it is the influence of the commonfolk of District 8- if he had told his parents that he'd been beginning to feel, God forbid, _doubt_ about his certain participation in the Games, they'd quarantine him- but he had been beginning to see the darker side of the Games. And he sees it still.

"…what do you think they did to her?" The girl from 12 is deep in conversation with the girl from 7. _How odd. People from different districts conversing? What are they doing? _Upon noticing the familiarity with which they speak, the way that they seem to understand each other more than strangers might, he feels a pang of loneliness. As much as he has tried to make alliances, he has been unable to do so.

The Careers? Definite no-no . They appear more troublesome than usual, the District 2 boy and District 4 girl in particular. Although he's considered teaming up with them anyway, they make him feel admittedly nervous… Admittedly in the sense that he can admit it to himself, anyway. He'd never say so to anyone else, even if he got the chance.

Someone is speaking to him, he suddenly registers. He turns his head around towards the boy from District 9, who has his eyebrows raised, as if wanting Mason to answer a question. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" Mason asks, his previously bombastic façade disappearing.

"I was asking," The boy from District 9 says, without a smile. "What you think of what happened with the girl from District 6. Isabella, isn't it?"

Mason pauses, unsure whether he wants to answer the boy or not, but eventually decides that there couldn't possibly be any harm in it. After all, it isn't like this boy poses him a threat. He shrugs good-naturedly. "I'd presume, by the fact that she was clutching the back of her head, that she hit her head…" He realises how pretentious he sounds, and backtracks furiously. "Well, it's a possibility."

"She was on the Gauntlet a lot," the boy from 9 agrees, weighing up his thoughts. He thumbs in the direction of the door, with a half smile. "Also, there _was _blood all over the back of her head."

"I hope she'll be okay," Someone else cuts in: Mason turns around once more, rather overwhelmed with the sudden social explosion, to see the girl from 9 leaning towards them. She glances towards the door, a compassionate expression on her face. "She looked really hurt."

The boy frowns at her. "What do you care?" He replies. Mason shares in his sentiment; although he is curious as to what precisely happened to the girl from 6, he doesn't particularly mind whether she'll be all right, or otherwise. One less opponent, he supposes.

The girl raises her eyebrows, apparently rather put-out by the other boy's comment. She shoots him a withering look, before replying, "It's not like she's a Career. It's a question of morality, isn't it?" She glances at Mason, and rolls her eyes.

Pursing his lips, Mason looks back at her. "She's just another opponent." Is all he says.

She seems rather irritated by that comment, and glances at the door behind which the District 6 girl disappeared. There is a rather hungering expression in her eyes, and she turns around in search of back-up, but receives none. When she turns back to the boys, she grits her teeth. "Well," She says coolly. "I'll know who to look out for in the Arena, then."

"Oh, I'm not killing anyone," Both Mason and the girl turn to look at the boy, who is looking confused by his treatment. At their questioning stares, he shrugs sheepishly. "I just say it like it is. I just don't feel much compassion for any of you guys, given the circumstances… No offence."

The girl from District 9 makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh, before glancing sideways at Mason. "What about you, then?" She asks, looking him up and down. There is a half smile on her face now, as if put at ease by the boy from 9.

Mason feels a little guilty. Compared to these two, he practically feels psychopathic; he shuffles his feet awkwardly, before deciding what it would be best to do. He nods and smiles widely, trying to ignore the guilt building up inside him. "Yeah. I'm not a killer." Mason speaks with practised confidence, tilting his chin upwards. "In self-defence, but I'd never seek people out."

"Exactly!" The other two look rather relieved by his statement. The three of them fall into a silence, which could be called both comfortable and so intensely uncomfortable that it was making a certain boy squirm in his seat.

Luckily, before the conversation could get anymore dangerous, a Peacekeeper interrupted all of them. "Quiet down! Marcus Delavega, District 7."

The boy from District 7- a tall, rather hulking dark haired boy- is moved through to the next room along, and everyone silences to watch him go. His cheeks flush lightly under the attention and, flanked by Peacekeepers, he disappears from sight.

Mason sighs to himself, and shuts his eyes, tilting his head back.

_I'm finished making sense,_

_Done pleading ignorance,_

_That whole defence,_

_Spinning infinity, boy the wheel is spinning me,_

_It's never ending, never ending,_

_Same old story..._

**DAMIEN WELLS, DISTRICT 2**

Damien smiles. Doesn't he always? It feels so _good _to smile at people, especially people he's going to kill. Lure them into a false sense of security, you know? Although that hasn't truly worked, this time round. Perhaps it is the circumstances but people seem to view him as… well… _mad. _How ridiculous, he tells himself, how slanderous.

He sits cross legged on the ground of the District 2 floor, his eyes wide and alert, and his smile perhaps more lazy than usual. For once, it could even be called somewhat sarcastic, a little challenging. Damien sits directly in the line of the television where, when the District Escort turns it on in a few moments time, the Training Scores will appear.

Thus, he will learn even more about his "opponents".

Observation was key, wasn't it? The other tributes certainly observed him, their glistening eyes wide and meek; like sheep, lining up for slaughter. They were so dreadfully _moist_, with their pink cheeks and quivering lips, the blood rushing under their skin in delicate veins and arteries. So awfully innocent, with their talks of sparing one another, and coming together as one. So artfully deceitful- some of them, anyway- in the way that they spoke of revolution.

The television switched on and, with it, Damien's grin exploded up a few notches. His facial muscles ached with the pull of it, but he managed to keep it in place; he even bared his teeth. Sadly, nobody seemed to be paying him any heed: they'd all grown tired of his behaviour, even Korina, and were wearying of him in general. Perhaps the initial fear factor had worn off a little.

Pity.

Caesar Flickerman's face appeared on the screen, his cheeks pulled back with years' worth of plastic surgery, his hair and suit a curious shade of blood red. _How appropriate! _It almost appeared that he had been bleeding to death, his life's blood spilling over his yielding flesh, his mouth agape… Damien pulled himself from an intense daydream in order to pay attention for the first score.

"From District 1, Winner, with a score of 8. Also from District 1, Audrey, with a score of 10"

Damien brought the boy into mind, and narrowed his eyes. _Decent score, for a thoroughly decent kid. Interesting. _Corrupting Winner was rather amusing; the way that words could manipulate him was intriguing to watch. With each vicious word that spewed from Damien's lips, Winner seemed to wilt. Hmph.

And Audrey? A less interesting and more threatening case. She was less pliable, and more likely to snap due to anger, possibly snapping his neck in the process. A very good score, too; she was certainly deadly, and aloof to boot. _Hopefully Exotica will drive her insane. I'll have to watch out for the signs._

"From District 2, Damien, with a score of 9. Korina, with a score of 9."

On the sofa behind him, Korina made a sound of celebration, and was joined by the rest of their entourage. While Damien did not make a sound, a small spark of triumph hit him. Although it wasn't a ten- not that he'd been expecting one of _those_- it was better than… say… an eight. His smirk was more malicious than ever.

"From District 3, Spectre, with a score of 6. Skylar, with a score of 5."

Not entirely surprising, Damien supposed. Occasionally tributes from District 3 would surprise everyone with their strength, but neither of the offerings from that district had really stood out to him. The boy was shadowed and jumpy, the girl sweet and shy. He mentally crossed them off his list of threats, with a kind of relish.

"From District 4, Rio, with a score of 9. Exotica, with a score of 8."

Not a surprise. As much as Exotica was a braggart, she didn't seem to show much proficiency at actual fighting. Perhaps she had stood and stripped for the Gamemakers, Damien wondered, and his eyes lit up a little. She wasn't a physical threat, but Damien wouldn't want to play her at a game of mental Russian roulette. Exotica did not interest him, in the sense that he understood her quite perfectly. _Someone to be knocked off._

Rio? Physically, he was intimidating to Damien, as well as being almost as interesting as Winner. Maybe Rio was even more interesting; there had been less opportunity to torment him, so Damien barely understood the bespectacled boy.

"From District 5, Lukas, with a score of 9. Mim, with a score of 6."

Damien actually raised his eyebrows at that, staring at the rather thuggish face of the boy on the screen. Was he really worthy of a nine? A small frown came onto his face, before it immediately disappeared. _Frown? Good gracious! _One to watch out for. Probably threw some weights or something similarly vanilla.

And the girl? Didn't stand out much. However, Damien couldn't help- perhaps it was his paranoia from the good score of the male- but scrutinize her. She just seemed too average, it wasn't quite right… He shook his head. Mentally, he crossed Mim Fuze off his list of threats.

"From District 6, Avien, with a score of 7… Isabella, with a score of 4… From District 7, Marcus, with a score of 7… Charlie, with a score of 8… From District 8, Mason, with a score of 8… Aela, with a score of 5… From District 9, Reel, with a score of 6… Finley, with a score of 6… From District 10, Patchouli, with a score of 7… Hiroko, with a score of 6… From District 11, Nickel, with a score of 7… Rose-Mary, with a score of 3… From District 12, Nelson, with a score of 5… Rowan, with a score of 6…"

As the words went on, Damien registered each and every one. Some of the tributes, he crossed off his list of threats. Sometimes, he would deliberate, before choosing; the girl from District 7 took him five minutes to decide, and the boy from 8 took him ten. When he finished, however, he was rather satisfied with his decisions.

The sheep awaited slaughter.

_What if I say I'm not like the others?_

_What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays,_

_You're the Pretender,_

_What if I say I will never surrender?_


	9. Interviews --- Paradise City

**Edited the last chapter, where I accidentally mixed up Hiroko and Finley. For those of you who have read my last SYOTs, there is a cameo from a... well-known non-tribute character. **

_Take me down to the paradise city;_

_Where the grass is green, and the girls are pretty;_

_Take me home, oh won't you please take me home?_

**SKYLAR ONSET, DISTRICT 3**

Her lips parted in a half smile, her chocolate brown eyes glazed over as she focuses her gaze on the screen. Above her, fluorescent lights send their harsh beams down upon her, reflecting off her hair, and illuminating it like a halo. Reddish flecks that she had not previously noticed, highlighted by her ever-diligent prep team.

To put it bluntly, Skylar Onset didn't think she'd ever looked so attractive, thanks to the Capitol paints and tools; she was, of course, by no means unique. All of the tributes around her, save the particularly grotesque- of which there were few if any at all. Even the plain, rather unfussy folk appeared to gleam under the harsh stage-lights.

Some even looked beautiful.

The show had not begun quite yet. Attendants scurried around like ants on an ant hill, shouting orders at one another, and bewailing the stress of the occasion. Skylar watched as a man almost bulbous in appearance and a woman carrying a pile of clipboards crashed headlong into one each other, the clipboards falling to the ground with a loud clatter.

Amongst the tributes, there were mixed giggles and hisses of shock. Skylar, herself, stiffened at the sudden noise, but chose to remain silent. In front of her, the boy from District 2 lounged, pressed almost flush to her front in the crush. The fear of attracting his attention- or anybody's, really- was enough to keep her quiet. So, taking a deep breath, she kept her eyes firmly forward, and ignored the shouting of the bulbous man and the clipboard-carrying woman as they both scrambled to retrieve what had fallen.

"My coffee, all down the front of my new _silk _cravat from Medici's Bouti-"

"Never mind about that, you silly man! Help me pick this all up this instant, or I'll be forced to call-"

Skylar blocked out the shrill conversation as easily as if it was the screeching of gears, a common sound in District 3. She had learned to block it out there: it was so consistent, that if one did not block it out, they would gradually go mad because of it. Or, at least, that was what Skylar thought.

_GGGGTTTTTTT-_

A sudden blast of music made Skylar squeak in shock, leaping backwards on reflex. It seemed that her reaction was shared, as some of the others made noises of surprise- one girl outright screamed- and more made similar noises as a domino effect began.

Luckily for Skylar, she was pushed back before she managed to hit the ground, having lost her footing due to her shock. While she hadn't fallen dramatically, and probably wouldn't have done anything more than embarrassed herself, it was appreciated all the same. As Spectre pushed her back to her feet a little more roughly than could have been called necessary, she sighed an audible sigh of relief.

"Thanks." She mumbled, glancing at him and nodding; he nodded back at her somewhat gravely. Even in his suit, with his hair combed and styled, Spectre still gave off an aura of unkemptness that rather suited him. Not that Skylar noticed this, of course.

The show was beginning.

At the front of the line, not too far ahead of Skylar, the girl from District 1- Audrey, wasn't it?- was being hustled onto the stage. She didn't look too pleased, her thin lips pursed, but in front of Skylar's eyes, she twisted her face into an open smile. She licked her lips once, her pink, pointed tongue darting over perfectly glossed lips, before heading out onto the stage.

From where she stood, Skylar could see Caesar Flickerman on the stage, his hair and suit an odd shade of bubblegum pink. He seemed as enthusiastic as ever, and the roars of the crowd were loud enough to send a bubble of fear through her stomach. Audrey on stage, however, didn't seem to mind; she appeared almost frivolous in the way she flitted about, smiling and waving as if it was all she was born to do.

"Damn." Mumbled someone in front of her, and Skylar's eyes were brought to the boy from District 1, who had his arms crossed and was shaking his head at the stage. He turned around and said to the girl from District 2, who was directly behind him, "She knows how to act."

"You'd better hope you do too." Was the girl's short, rather blunt reply, before they were shushed by some of the attendants, who were still hurrying around rather manically, apparently not put at ease by the beginning of the interviews. Tapping her foot, Skylar waited in line for her own, vaguely listening as Audrey Syrian answered questions about the Career alliance, her childhood, and her "love interests".

"So, how about the boy from your District, Winner?" Caesar was asking. His teeth flashed almost blindingly white under the lights of the stage, and he wet his lips with his tongue, similarly to how Audrey had before leaving backstage. "Or are you into the brooding Rio? Or... the cheerful type, like Damien?"

Audrey's laugh sounded as fake as it probably was. She covered her mouth politely with one hand, and Skylar blinked, confused. _What is she playing at? I don't really understand. Playing it like a ditz, even though she's... _

"Oh, I like them all," she said eventually, shooting a roguish wink in Caesar's direction. _How long did it take her to master that? _"But of course, there is that special someone... But why divulge? You'll have to wait and see!"

The interviews went by quickly after that. Perhaps it was the growing nausea in Skylar's stomach that caused it, or the bile rising in her throat at the thought of emerging in front of the crowd. _Stay frosty, Skylar, stay frosty... _As many times as she told herself to stay calm, she couldn't bring herself to do so. Pawing the ground nervously, she twisted the hem of her dress between sweaty fingers; the moisture from her hands slid off the slippery material, and she had to fight to keep hold of it.

As the boy from District 2 walked off the stage to tumultuous applause, she felt a new jolt of fear run through her, and hung her head briefly, pursing her lips. Should she wait for the applause to die down before walking onto the stage? Could she possibly bring herself to step out there, in front of all of those people? Everyone in front of her had done it just fine.

She would _not _be the weak one, she told herself fiercely, shaking her head to herself. Skylar registered that someone was pushing her forward. A Capitol attendant, the one who had previously been holding the clipboards, that was it.

The lights almost blinded her.

Then, she pushed her tongue out of the corner of her mouth, and wet her dry lips, as she'd seen Audrey do. Like Audrey, she practically strutted, trying to control the shaking centred in her small abdomen. As she made it out, she pushed a strand of her dark hair over her shoulder, and blinked- the lights from above had dazzled her to the stage that she saw flashing spirals wherever she looked- at the crowd.

Could she be as frivolous as the pair from District 1? As cheerful as the boy from District 2 (in his own odd, disturbing little way), or as quietly menacing as the girl from that District?

Walking to Caesar, she mimicked the boy from 2's walk. The jauntiness of his step, the way he swung his arms rather casually at his sides in a relaxed manner. When she sat, she sat as the boy from District 1 had, with her arms spread casually over the back of the chair, one leg crossed over the other.

_Stay frosty._

Skylar, keeping her face as cool and aloof as the girl from District 2's, answered her questions in turn. She ignored the audience as she ignored the screeching of cogs and gears from home, similarly to how she'd ignored the squabbling Capitol folk. Things, in due, could not have gone better.

As she stepped offstage, she took a quick look at Spectre, who didn't look back at her. His attention, fully undivided, was on the stage; his lips were a little parted, in a silent expression of fear.

**MARCUS DELAVEGA, DISTRICT 7**

Everything about this place was so overwhelming to him. For a boy used to fragrant pine forests and simple wooden cabins, the glitz and glamour of the Capitol was not something he could truly comprehend. Like how he couldn't understand the people. They seemed so... abnormal. The colours, some of which he had never even seen before, almost hurt his eyes. In a world of sepia, the Capitol was an eye-sore beyond forgiveness.

Marcus Delavega stood awkwardly in line behind the girl from his district, Charlie, and tried to appear as inconspicuous as humanly possible. His hair, spiked in ways he did not even concieve possible, felt stiff and uncomfortable. His stylist had put _make-up _on his eyes, like a girl! He'd felt so embarrassed that he'd come rather close to wiping it off with the back of his hand, but had earned his hand being slapped for his trouble.

He'd spoken to Finley from District 10 on the way down, who was his only female ally thus far, who had complained for the entire elevator ride down to the lobby about how much make-up had been plastered onto her face. Truth be told, it didn't look so bad on her. She'd actually looked quite pretty.

In front of him, Charlie was called up to the stage. She rolled her eyes at him before she went, clicking her tongue, before bouncing towards the stage with a shocking lack of fear. He watched her go almost dumbstruck, intrigued with her lack of fear, but equally, somewhat impressed. Marcus was thinking it more and more likely that he might have to be dragged onto the stage by his overly spiky hair if they wanted him there.

Charlie's interview went far too quickly for Marcus' liking. The Capitol seemed to view her as something of an oddity, and she received a mixed reception. Most of it seemed warm, but there were those who seemed stuck between chattering with their neighbours about how 'cute' she was, and discussing the popping muscles that emerged when she flexed.

Now, Marcus was not skinny, and had a perfectly athletic body, so was it rather strange that he was jealous of the muscles of a female? Some of the other boys looked rather envious too, so he supposed that it wasn't too shameful. Nevertheless, he kept his eyes averted, watching the astonishingly overweight District 4 Escort harassing her tributes.

"Exotica! You looked like a hoe, out there, a hoe!" Most of the tributes were still hanging around backstage, although none of them were making quite as such a ruckus as the District 4 group. As Marcus waited for his turn, he watched them, intrigued.

The District 4 girl- Exotica?- was looking mightily annoyed. She crossed her arms and stuck out her bottom lip, looking for all the world like the 'hoe' her district escort claimed her to be. She mumbled something under her breath, rolling her eyes and starting to move away, but her district escort- a plump woman wearing a voluminous orange dress- grabbed her shoulder.

"The word you are looking for is _sassy_, and you'd better pray you don't find it!"

Marcus was distracted by the conversation as he was pushed onto the stage by an attendant, and before he knew it, the crowds were screaming his name. He stood rooted to the spot momentarily, his mouth dry, before he used one hand to spike up his hair, and walked towards the chair centre stage.

It had been so quick, he realised, that he'd barely felt the fear he presumed he'd feel. And now, he didn't feel much at all. Although the feeling of Capitol eyes upon him was unpleasant- _Damn, that wig looks like a dead animal- _it was necessary, he supposed.

So, he shot a shy smile in Caesar's direction, who smiled back encouragingly. "Hello, Marcus! How are you doing this evening?"

"Pretty good," Marcus said, and was surprised to find that his voice was a little higher than usual, and had to cough to lower it. A few people laughed, and he felt his cheeks pinken, his heart speeding up somewhat. "A-and yourself?"

Caesar seemed pleasantly surprised. "I'm fantastic, thank you for asking. Very, _very _excited to be meeting you all. Now, what do you think of the Capitol so far?"

_Straight to the point, then. I like that._

"We-e-ell," he drew out the word, thinking to himself. "It's real colourful."

A few more people laughed at that, but the laughter wasn't entirely unkind. A little patronising, sure, but certainly not unkind.

"Colorful, that it is, certainly colourful. Anything you like about it?"

"I like that it's colourful," Marcus replied, having thought about it for a moment. He moved his hand to the back of his head, pushing the spikes up ever further. "And I like the Training Centre."

Caesar smiled. "The Training Centre! You must be good at that, eh? Big man like you."

That made Marcus laugh, and a few people laughed with him. He turned his eyes to the audience rather shyly, and saw smiles on their faces, anticipating his answer in an almost predatorial manner. Although Marcus didn't see this, of course. He saw hordes of grinning, painted faces. _Friendly _faces, which surprised him. He'd thought they'd all be monsters but they seemed... kind.

"I reckon I wasn't so bad. Made some allies. Given my district, I can use axes... It was kind of fun."

The audience seemed to like this answer, and so did Caesar. "Allies! You're a friendly type, then?"

"Not usually. Met some... like-minded folk here, and made an exception. Guess that's what this game is about, right? Doing things you wouldn't ordinarily do?"

_Doing things you wouldn't ordinarily do. Talking when you wouldn't ordinarily talk. Running when you wouldn't ordinarily run. Hurting when you wouldn't ordinarily hurt. _

_Killing when you wouldn't ordinarily kill._

**NELSON MANN, DISTRICT 12**

Being the last tribute to have an interview felt strange, to Nelson. Although previously some of the other tributes had hung around, all of them had dispersed at about the point that District 11 finished, leaving him and his district partner Rowan the only two tributes left backstage. And now, with her onstage, he was alone.

He balled his fists, and shook his dark hair into his face, covering his eyes from the penetrating glare of the stage lights. Attempting to close his mind to the whole situation was difficult, due to the power of the sounds and sights encasing him, he tried to think of his sisters, Emerson and Hailey. Picturing their faces from before the fire- round, young, kind- in his mind's eye was enough to keep him sane, enough to send him onto that stage with a spring in his step, and a jaunty smile.

The thought of their faces as they were now- hollow-cheeked, too old for their years, wolfish- was enough to make him want to curl into a ball and never appear in the public's eye again.

But he wouldn't think about that, of course. Nelson Mann prided himself on his diligence, and there was, of course, no use in thinking of that. It would be a vicious circle: he would do badly in his interview, and make himself miserable, and die in the Hunger Games. If he didn't think about them like that, he would do fine in his interview, be neutral and maybe, just maybe, not die in the Hunger Games.

Rowan came sashaying off the stage to moderate applause; the moment she was out of view, her face contorted into a weary scowl, and she shot a semi-sympathetic look in his direction, her eyes panning over him. "They're bored." She said slowly, grimacing at him, before moving out of the backstage area towards the lobby.

That didn't do wonders for his self-esteem, but Nelson steeled himself up anyway. As Caesar Flickerman announced his name, he strode out onto the stage without being pushed, a carefully manufactured grin on his face. As the crowds roared, he kept his expression the same, even waving at the audience, his teeth gritted behind smiling lips. As demeaning as it might be, it was necessary to get these people to like him.

_See, I've got it worked out. If these people like me, they'll sponsor me. If they sponsor me, I'll be able to survive the Hunger Games. If I survive the Hunger Games, I can go home. Simple!_

Nelson sat on the comfortable chair next to Caesar Flickerman, and accepted the hand-shake that was offered. As the applause slowly died down, he flicked his fringe out of his face, and sat up perfectly straight, his hands clasped in his lap. The smile still there, but his expression a little more sombre now, he observed Caesar, his playground eyes nestled into the mask he called a face.

"Welcome, Nelson, welcome! Now, the Capitol must be a far cry from District 12, correct?" The man seemed so trustworthy, with his understanding expression- like a kind old uncle, perhaps- that Nelson was very nearly pulled in. He opened his mouth to answer, then shut it. "Nelson?"

"I like to think," Nelson said slowly, cutting Caesar off. He glanced at the crowd, who looked back somewhat apprehensively. "Yeah, it's a far cry. But at least I'm amongst my own, right?" He attempted a good-natured smile and, from the way some of the Capitol people smiled back at him, he supposed it must have worked. "At least I'm not alone."

The lines on Caesar's face deepened into shallow valleys, as his facial expression changed to one of concern. "Meaning?" He asked, and there was a cool undertone to his voice now. He quickly regained the roguish grin, but there was something about his expression that was different, now.

Nelson glanced at him, then at the crowd, and allowed the smile to melt off his face. "Meaning that I'm not alone. I've got Rowan, and I've got my allies. And I know that my sisters are watching over me, too."

Caesar visibly relaxed. "Oh, I see!" _What was he expecting me to say? _"Well, that's nice. Your sisters? Younger, or-"

"Yeah, they're younger than me," Nelson continued. "Twelve and seven." There were several appreciative sounds made from the crowd, and he waited for them to die down before continuing. "My parents... Well, you see, there was this house-fire when I was fifteen, two years ago. My parents didn't have any money left, and were more concerned with looking after themselves than me and my sisters. So, I've spent the last two years looking after my sisters. Doing what had to be done, you know?"

He was feeling more and more uncomfortable with every word that left his lips, but it was necessary, like everything else. Going for the sympathy vote wasn't something Nelson thought he'd ever sink to, but there was little else he could do. He was average aesthetically, he couldn't use weapons with any real skill, and he certainly wasn't as strong as some of the Careers.

"I would build us little shelters," The whole room was rapt. Even Caesar remained silent, waiting for Nelson to continue his story. "The three of us would do it together. I'd tell them that our parents would be back soon, and we had to look self-sufficient, or they wouldn't want us. I know it's cruel, but we had to work together. I was the parent, sure, but I couldn't have lived without them. I-"

The buzzer went off, signalling the end of his interview. Suddenly, he became desperate, moving his hands to the arms of the chair, and gripping on tight. He turned directly to the cameras, his eyes pleading.

"Hailey, Emerson, you're going to be okay. You have to look after each other, okay? You _have _to. Anyone in District 12, listen-" Caesar was trying to make him move, cutting him off, and smiling and waving at him. "You have to help them. Don't let them starve, please don't let the-"

His microphone was cut off, and Caesar Flickerman got to his feet, pulling Nelson with him. "Nelson Mann, District 12, everybody!"

There was hesitant applause.

_Just an urchin livin' under the street,_

_I'm a hard case that's tough to beat,_

_I'm your charity case so buy me something to eat,_

_I'll pay you at another time,_

_Take it to the end of the line,_

_Take me down to paradise city,_

_Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty,_

_Oh won't you PLEASE TAKE ME HOME._


	10. After Dark 2

**Since I used Hiroko's POV basically to describe all of your tributes from her point of view (not necessarily mine), I'm giving her another one early on in the story. Not the Bloodbath, where all of the tributes who haven't had a POV to themselves in the Capitol chapters, but early on. **

_Just tonight I will stay;  
And we'll throw it all away;  
When the light hits your eyes;  
It's telling me I'm right.  
_

**KORINA MAWER, DISTRICT 2**

The night was far too beautiful to be her last, Korina Mawer told herself, as the leant over the metal rail, and watched the city below. Strange, she supposed, that she was alone up here; from what she'd heard, some of the other tributes knew of this place. While training- not that she needed it, she blustered- she had idly eavesdropped upon many conversations, and learned many interesting things.

Interesting things that could, in context, be put to use. Would she ever use them? She didn't know.

"Yeah, of course I will." she mumbled to herself. She summoned up a ball of spit into her mouth, leaning farther over the rail, and let it loose. It gave her some kind of grim satisfaction to imagine it might a Capitolite. What, would they think it a drop of rain? Maybe she should start dropping bricks? Was there anything large enough to throw that might hurt?

Korina considered searching around for something to throw, before changing her mind last minute. Still, she jumped down from where she stood on the ornate metal railings, and wandered across the roof, with a strange spring in her step. She'd be lying if she said there wasn't a sick kind of excitement pulsing through her. The anticipation, alone, was delicious. After a build up of seventeen long years, the idea that she would finally be reaching her climax, reaping the fruit of her labours, was enough to send a shockwave through her bones.

The thought that in order to live her idea of a dream, she would have to end the lives of twenty three other children, did not even occur to her. She was blissfully incoherent, in the way that only a Career tribute could be. And the worst part? Korina Mawer barely understood that she was soon to be a murderess.

"You like it up here?" The voice almost made her jump out of her skin. She swore loudly and leapt backwards, almost tipping herself over the edge of the railings, but managed to stop herself just in time. Rough hands met smooth metal, and she clung on for dear life, as her torso and head swung over the Capitol below. The speaker did nothing to help.

Korina growled, heart pumping so hard she could barely speak. "A little help?"

When the person did not reply, she sighed, and used all of her might to force herself back over the edge, and back onto the solid surface. Her eyes narrowed, Korina turned to look for the person who had ignored her request for help, fully intent on giving them the hiding of their life. But as she took in the appearance of the person, she raised her eyebrows. "You're stalking me. I knew it. Okay, when's the part where you kill me and croon to my lifeless body?" She snickered. "If you'd let me die, you wouldn't have had a chance."

Nickel Peppersmith moved a little further into the light. His blond eyebrows were knitted, although there was no sense of real emotion on his face aside from that. While he might have been emulating it, his eyes were glazed, and his mouth hung open almost stupidly. When he spoke, he sounded rather curious. "There's a force field. My mentor told me when she caught me up here last night. So you wouldn't have died. You just would have been… cooked."

She had to stifle a nervous laugh at his oddity. While she was sure that some of her female peers from District 2 might have overlooked his strangeness in favour of his looks- and she may have done so at first- she was oddly repulsed by him. But equally, she couldn't quite bring herself to be rid of him. Nickel was like a fat spider; unbearable to get rid of personally, but Korina found herself hoping that somebody else would bump him off. So she didn't have to.

"You're incredibly charming." Korina replied cheerfully, moving as far away from him as possible. Despite herself, she shot him a rather amiable smile. "Your interview was slightly funny. Caesar was really trying to bait you, and you had no idea…" she chortled loudly, and he raised an eyebrow, forcing a smile onto his face. "…what he was talking about. You're comedy gold, _sweetheart_."

While she had been aiming to insult him, he didn't seem to notice. He even smiled, just a little, and bowed his head as if to thank her for the "praise". They stood in silence for a few moments, before she sighed, and moved back to the railings. Without her really noticing, Nickel followed, and came to an abrupt halt a few feet behind her.

"You can stand with me. But I'm going in soon."

Bowing his head again, he moved to her side, standing almost uncomfortably close. Korina had to shift away slightly, such was his proximity, and shot him a hateful glower that he didn't seem to register; certainly, he was the most ignorant person she'd ever come across. Why that was, however, was a mystery to her.

"Are you going to win the Games?" Nickel asked, and his words sounded forced. Without her noticing, he shifted closer once again in order to fill the gap she'd created between the two of them. The warmth of her skin comforted him.

Korina shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe! _Probably_. I've trained all of my life, after all. And I'm strong, and I certainly know what I'm doing…"

"What about the other Careers?" Nickel inquired, his interest sparked. He seemed oddly excitable all of a sudden, in an almost childlike sense. He was like a child, comparing his favourite idols from the television. "The big one? The one with the glasses? The crazy one?"

"We're all crazy. You'll have to specify."

At that, Nickel blinked. He thought for a moment, resting his cheek in the palm of his hand as he thought, and his tongue poked a little way out of the corner of his mouth. Then, he nodded at her. His eyes were huge, and far too innocent. "The District 4 one. The girl."

**EXOTICA SCOTT, DISTRICT 4 FEMALE**

The shadows were thick around her. Truthfully, she'd never come across a place so easy to hide in; if she crouched the right way, and extinguished the whiteness of her eyes behind her hair, she was almost completely invisible. Nevertheless, she was having a hard time focusing, when her brain was calling… well… opportunity_. _From her spot near the side of the small elevator building that jutted out of the otherwise flat roof, she could see Korina and the boy from District 11.

And, for some reason, they seemed to know each other. Perfect opportunityright there. Unlike in previous years, Exotica hadn't really seen any tributes in soul-searing romances or heart-wrenching friendships this time round. Nobody who could really be manipulated and, indeed, she'd rather manipulate somebody physically weaker than Korina Mawer. Somebody who needed protecting.

But, Exotica was nothing if not vigilant. How had she escaped capture for all of her years in her makeshift business? Simple. Knowing and meeting the right people, and working out loopholes. Really, nothing she was doing was _illegal_. Not if you didn't count the things that couldn't be traced back to her, anyway; since it wasn't an actual registered business, she could claim she was just an adolescent airhead who liked doing things for people.

Which was, she defended, at least _a little _true.

They were still talking, the two of them. Exotica shifted uncomfortably, having gained a sudden, nagging feeling that they might be able to see her. Although they certainly weren't looking in her direction, she could help but imagine that she was totally conspicuous, and they were just playing along. In order to quash this strange, nude feeling, she bit down on the soft, inner flesh of her lip. As the skin tore a little, she tasted the metallic tang of her own blood for not the first time.

"Oh, Exotica…" _That's right. Talk nice about me to your little boyfriend, Korina. _"She's creepy. She's always touching everyone, 'cept Damien, because she's scared of him. " _What?! You're dead the second I run out of use for you. Nice one, bitch. _"She's physically not much of a threat, though. I'm just wor-concerned as to what's going to happen when she actually drives Audrey mental."

"She's got sad eyes," the boy said. Exotica's eyes panned round to him, unimpressed, and she took him in for the first time. He was handsome, certainly, but the attraction that Exotica usually felt to specimens like him was strangely not there. Calling someone physically attractive was entirely different to being attracted to somebody. In the same way she was attracted to Damien and the boy from 5, she felt a slight fear of him. But he was near repelling, for some reason. "She's not happy."

"So?" Korina sounded almost frustrated. And for some reason unknown to her, Exotica felt frustrated too. She just wanted them to get their cosy little conversation over with, so she could begin her manipulation of the relationship she was watching. She would be going out on a limb, since what she'd observed hadn't been precisely loving, but she'd work with whatever there was.

It seemed that, after a few minutes more of conversation, Korina was becoming weary. She turned to the boy from 11 (Nickel, Exotica had discovered his name was), and shot him her first real smile of the evening. "I'm going to sleep. Gotta be rested for tomorrow, right?"

He nodded. "Yes. Sleeping's necessary if you want to be rested."

That made Exotica actually roll her eyes. _Get it over with, you idiots. _

Nickel made the first move towards the elevator building after they had exchanged a brief and somewhat cold farewell. He slipped into the waiting elevator and, without missing a beat, hit the button for it to go down. Just as the doors were sliding shut, Korina shouted something along the lines of, "GOOD-LUCK-YOU'LL-NEED-IT!" before he was out of sight.

_Bingo. She's alone, now. This is actually being handed to me on a silver plate. No, seriously. Can I get a side-salad with this?_

For a few moments, Exotica merely observed Korina, like a predator observes its prey. She crouched, ready to pounce; if she'd had claws, she would have extended them. Her eyes fixated on Korina, as she took in every sign she could use to her advantage. The dilated pupils, still lingering on where the gangly boy had disappeared. Her uptight stance, her lifted chin, the dreamy expression on her previously hard-set face. So unless some devastatingly handsome man had appeared without Exotica's noticing, Korina was attracted to Nickel. _Perfect._

Exotica stood up, and moved out of the shadows towards her prey.

"Fuck!"

Apparently, Korina didn't react well to being startled, which Exotica learned the hard way. As what felt like a small horse bowled into her, she noted that in the future, she might not startle the girl from District 2 again. Especially in the Games, when said girl would have access to weapons. Pinned to the ground underneath the physically stronger girl, she also noted that the expression of shock on Korina's face was extremely amusing, and she couldn't wait to see it again.

"E-Exotica?"

"…What's up?"

It only took a few seconds for Korina to be scrambling to her feet, although she did manage to trip over one of Exotica's legs as she went, and sent herself sprawling. Clearly unable to fathom that only a few moments previously she'd been straddling the girl who was a near permanent fixture in her nightmares, she burst into a coughing fit. Oddly, Exotica could have sworn she saw a gush of blood coming from the girl's nostrils, although when she blinked, it was gone.

When both girls had composed themselves, Exotica opened her mouth before Korina could ask exactly what was going on. A vicious leer on her face, she crossed her arms and looked down at her new prey. "Korina," she said smugly, the delicious near-victory sending triumphant shockwaves up and down her spine, "I have a proposal. An offer for you."

**HIROKO REN, DISTRICT 9**

Horrific images plagued the dreams of Hiroko Ren. She lay in her bed, twisting from side to side with a face like thunder, clutching a pillow to her chest. Tears escaped from slanted eyes, rolling down soft cheeks and dripping onto the mattress below her. Almost ironically, it had started raining a few minutes previously, and she could hear the slapping of water against the glass of the windows.

A crack of thunder sent her underneath her coverlet, and she let out a quiet whimper. As much as she tried to stay strong, thinking of all of her admirers back home, it was impossible. First, she'd attempted to stay silent. Then, the dry sobs had started; she'd refrained from thinking about her situation only to eschew the idea that she might start actually crying. And crying was not something she did, not Hiroko Ren. Even if said Hiroko Ren was about to face her death upon facing the morning's light, no crying. At least, that's what she'd told herself before.

Mentally, she rushed through the tributes in her head again; if she wasn't able to sleep, then she might as well do something productive with her time. After the interviews, she'd spent her early evening in glum silence, watching reruns of the Reapings in order to learn the tributes' names, and how threatening they appeared.

But it didn't feel like it meant anything. She was cursed to remain awake, when she should have been sleeping, for she didn't know when she'd next be able to sleep. Did people sleep in the arena? She hadn't come across any allies, although she hoped she'd run into a group she could ally with in the arena itself. But what if that wasn't possible?

Thus, Hiroko worked herself into a mental frenzy, as the slapping of raindrops upon her window sent hit after hit through her currently fragile mind.

District 1, Winner Sinclair… She wasn't sure about him. He seemed almost your atypical tribute from that district, although what worried her was that he might have some kind of edge behind him. The girl? Audrey… or was it Aubrey… At that thought, Hiroko slammed her fist into the headboard at the top of the bed; the sound was of meat connecting with hard wood. The _girl _from District 1 was simple, wasn't she? Just strong, cold, vaguely emotionless… not a trouble, right? Hiroko knew her kind.

What worried her more was District 2. Damien, for a start, terrified the living daylights out of her. That smile of his, coupled with those dead eyes… She would stay vigilant, and stay as far away from him as she possibly could. Hopefully, she would be able to wipe the image of that frozen smile of his from her mind. Korina? Less of a threat. To be honest, she didn't worry Hiroko much. She seemed more similar to a girl from a place like… oh, District 7 or something. Like it was all a huge act, but there was something layered about her. A show of toughness, softness, and then something else.

And then, came District 3. Neither of them was of huge significance to Hiroko, as much as she didn't like to admit it. The boy looked like he could use a little time away from a glowing computer screen, and the girl? Nothing out of the ordinary. Just small, petite, and rather shy. Neither of them, to be frank, bothered her in the least. The thought of pegging them as Bloodbath victims was a little too brutal… But still, she allowed herself to mentally cross them off her list of threats, particularly the girl. While there was something remarkably haunting about the boy, the girl was just… ordinary.

District 4 had Exotica and Rio. And while both were typical of the district in some senses, there was something that made them different. Something different about each of them. While Rio's glasses were clearly a weakness, what worried her about Exotica was that whatever she had- a strange, almost intimidating aura about her- was certainly not a weakness. That charisma was something she'd have to watch out for.

And then, was District 5. Both tributes there seemed like they were up to something; together, if Hiroko was correct. Although they'd carefully been spending as much time as possible apart, she'd seen them whispering to each other on many different occasions, furtively glancing at the tributes around them. While Lukas was more physically threatening, Mim had a strange aura about her. Something that was quietly intelligent, without really announcing itself. Hiroko mentally noted both of them as threats, although in entirely different ways.

Like District 3, Hiroko didn't see any real threat in either of the District 6 tributes. They were both agile and rather hyperactive, but lacked any real finesse and the girl, in particular, seemed remarkably easily distracted. Isabella was constantly fidgeting, to the point that it became annoying; Avien seemed far younger than his sixteen years, and had a close physical resemblance to some kind of small, chirping bird. Nothing to worry about.

District 7 was the next district where she was able to find threats. Charlie seemed sweet and petite, but there were serious muscles underneath that exterior. For some reason, Hiroko found herself reversing the gender roles between Charlie and her counterpart Marcus, who seemed rather more effeminate. Not that he _was _particularly effeminate, but the hulking Lukas would appear feminine next to a girl like Charlie Zion. Neither was a particularly prominent threat, so Hiroko wrote them off for the time being.

The next district, District 8, was very much a mixed bag for her. While Hiroko found herself intentionally avoiding the gaze of the girl Aela, who seemed so very frightening, she was a little drawn to the boy. Mason, that was his name. She didn't know why, despite their interactions over the past course of the game, but he certainly didn't seem like your usual boy from that district. Usually, they were dark haired and skinny, and Mason was neither. Aela seemed more obvious, being small and slim, but her gaze was haunting and had such depth, that Hiroko was afraid to look directly at her.

Then, there was her district. Reel, and herself. She immediately wrote it off; obviously Reel would never hurt her, he was too gentle, and it wasn't like she could hurt herself. It's not like a person could hurt themselves, right?

District 10, once again, did not stand out to her much. The boy, Patchouli, seemed like some kind of drug-addict. His skin seemed almost loose on his face, in places, and although he was reasonably handsome, the black bags around his eyes and the lost expression in his pupils told a story that Hiroko would never know. Finley? Seemed fit, certainly. A threat in that respect, since Hiroko was almost certain that Finley could take her down, if they ever- God forbid- came to blows. But what intrigued her all the more, was that she was not entirely sure of Finley's personality. Not entirely sure if that wiry stature held anything behind it.

The next great, mixed bag was District 11. The boy joined Finley in the ranks of those she was unsure of- _what was his name again?- _and as she summoned up a picture of him in her mind's eye, she yawned. He was pretty, but that was about it. Cold. Dead. The girl, Rose-Mary, was a different story. Pure, young and sweet… no threat…

Hiroko was falling asleep as she went on, her eyelids fluttering as they gradually drifted closed. They shot open momentarily, as she tried to keep herself awake, but the thoughts of District 12 were dying as she gradually gave in to sleep's temptation.

_Nelson… sweet… kind… gentle… Rowan… pretty… mean… I don't-_

And with that, Hiroko fell asleep for what could be the last time.

**Okay, poll will be on my profile in approximately two minutes. The five tributes that get the least votes will die in the Bloodbath, so GO VOTE.**

**BLOOOODBATH BEEYTCHESSSSSSSS**

**I've been watching too much of Friendship is Magic, Bitch. Over and over again. I can't even watch MLP with my little siblings anymore, can't even look at bananas, can't look at the moon… Okay, none of you understand what I'm saying, but if I'm even making sense right now, **_**never watch that video. **_

**Sorry about all that. I'm half asleep, my little sister slapped me round the head, I set my Science textbook on fire, and-**

***has mental breakdown and dies***


	11. The Bloodbath --- You've Got Time

**Okay, guys, I'll put this in place as a warning to all of my younger readers. When I say younger, I mean under fourteen, since I know a lot of you are older than that and most likely able to stomach the things that're going to make this story mature. Now, don't get me wrong, there's going to be no blatant sex. Swearing's going to be pretty commonplace, although it won't be there just for the sake of it. Violence will be strong, there will be some psychological horror, and the whole thing may just make you paranoid enough to believe that Damien "Mr Glad" Wells is hiding under your bed. **

**Right now.**

**Ahah, I've also decided on a non-metal theme song for the Games. "You've Got Time" by Regina Spektor. I started watching Orange is the New Black and, ohmygod, I'm in love with Bennett. Hah, but seriously, that's the song.**

_The animals, the animals;_

_Are trapped, trapped, trapped till the cage is full;_

_The cage is full, stay awake;_

_In the dark, count mistakes;_

_The light was off, but now it's on;_

_Searching the ground for a bitter song;_

_The sun is out, the day is new;_

_And everyone's waiting, waiting on you-_

**BLOODBATH - PART 1 - SAY YOUR GOODBYES, READER.**

**HOUR 0800 APPROXIMATE, DAY 1. 24 CONTESTANTS REMAINING.**

"Good Morning, Tributes!" There was a deafening squeal of static, before the loudspeakers set up in all four corners of the shuttle snapped to life. The words spewed forth from them echoed around the metal walls, and several of the tributes winced at the volume. Having been woken up at what many of them viewed as an ungodly hour, most were foul-tempered enough without the threat of imminent death looming over their heads. One or two of the rowdier ones snarled and made noises of displeasure, and were prodded with the guns of the Peacekeepers stationed one to every four chairs for their trouble.

After another brief crackle as the shuttle struggled to find signal, the upbeat tones of Hunger Games announcer Cicero (his real name was unknown) began ringing out once more. He sounded far too excited. "Are we all ready for a big, big day?" While some of the tributes nervously replied, he didn't seem to be expecting an answer, because he cut most of them off before they could finish what they were going to say. "Great! As you all know, I will be announcing the Games, and letting you all know what's going on in your small world. Quick rules: when you get to the Arena, you will remain on your platform until I have finished counting down from sixty. Sound fair? Good. From there, you can run to the Cornucopia, or just skedaddle off without any supplies... But where's the fun in that?" Cicero laughed. A few of the tributes were beginning to get uncomfortable. "Well, you know what to do from there. Don't reckon it's up to me to tell you." His voice then lost some of its prior upbeatness, and became remarkably more sombre. "But before we get in there, I'd just like to let you all know that you are all winners to _me_, no matter how things turn out. So good luck, tributes, and may the odds be ever in your favour!"

There was a sound like a whining cat, and then the Panem National Anthem began to blare out. At the sound, all of the Peacekeepers raised their right hand to their forelock and saluted, gazing straight forward with stone cold expressions. Winner Sinclair raised his hand to salute too, a small grin playing on his lips, but his district partner Audrey Syrian irritably swatted his hand back down, earning herself a warning glower from the Peacekeeper nearest her.

The rest of the flight went undisturbed, with no more input from Cicero- he would be introducing the Early Morning Hunger Games Show, sat in his plush chair in a warm, safe studio many miles away- and the shuttle was becoming almost unbearably warm. It got hotter and hotter the further they went, until sweat began to drip down the tributes' faces; since their arms were strapped into their chairs to avoid escape attempts, they had no way to wipe themselves clean. Most stared at their feet, others looked at the ceiling, and some had the audacity to watch their opponents. The Careers lounged like royals on their metal chairs. They were kings amongst peasants, wolves amongst cattle. They had nothing to fear about the hours ahead.

Audrey Syrian was the only Career who was not reclining lazily. Her back was straight, she looked straight ahead with the military precision of the Peacekeepers around her. Stationed directly under one of the fierce blue lights of the shuttle, she appeared almost ghostly, and certainly unwell. Whether this was just an effect of the lights, nobody could tell. Next to her, Winner Sinclair seemed remarkably at ease with the situation. While his dark eyes did not linger on anybody for too long, he panned them over the tributes opposite him with the lazy yet predatorial look of a lounging cat. Korina Mawer, separated from them by a few filled seats, was almost unreadable. Beneath her shell, however, one might have spotted a barely noticeable tremble in her set jaw, or a wretchedness to her blank eyes. Damien Wells had none of that: he grinned cheerfully, same as ever. Derisive. Cruel. Empty. He eyed those around him, shot what appeared to be encouraging smiles at some of the younger assembled, even winked once at a female Peacekeeper, who cleared her throat uncomfortably. Rio Seymour and Exotica Scott shared a look of aboveness to the whole sitaution, from their place at the far end of the shuttle. While Rio seemed cool and unconcerned, Exotica was merely lofty, her eyes narrowed and her teeth clenched.

It was getting hotter still. Skylar Onset tilted her head to the side, and the droplet of sweat heading towards her dry lips was diverted from its path, and slipped down her neck. She shot a nervous glance around, and her eyes met those of Finley Quill, who had been gazing dreamily into space. Upon realising that they'd locked stares, Skylar offered a tiny yet apologetic smile, and Finley nodded rather brusquely at her. Despite the hardness of her expression, there was a gentle spark to her eyes that promised no true evil. They communicated silently, their faces saying it all.

"_I'm scared."_

"_I'm scared too."_

Beside her, Spectre Wishart was fixated on the loudspeakers in the corners, his mind whirring. How were they connected to the Capitol Radio Stations, he wondered? If the shuttle was in flight, surely signal would be difficult... His mind wandered momentarily to the thought of the Games, before he sent it snapping back to the technology. Things were easier that way. The fear pulsing through his every pore was enough to make him cry like an infant, and he couldn't have that. Better stick to the loudspeakers, he thought.

Nearest to the doors, Mim Fuze had her eyes shut, drifting between the realms of sleep and awake. She felt boneless, her mind practically numb, as she attempted to think of better things. She ran through the plan that she was almost certain would save her life, thinking of Lukas, and silently hating him. Lukas Bright was a chessmaster. She could use him for her own benefit, as long as he could use her too. They were locked in a battle of wits: _he _had the ideas, Mim had the smarts to put them to good use. Under heavy eyelids, she glared at him, seething silently.

Avien Featherling and Isabella Dennis sat side by side, their hands inches away from touching. He could have outstretched his hand to cover hers, to comfort her, but Avien most of all wanted to comfort himself. He wasn't _ready _to enter into a battle like this, where all he had would be put to the test. Killing someone was not in his nature, but natures would be changed here, he told himself, _natures would be changed._ If he emerged... what would he be? The normally optimistic Avien wallowed in his own misery for a few moments, before turning his head as far as it could go, and glancing at Isabella.

If anybody looked worse than he did, it was her. Her eyes were screwed tightly shut as she struggled to keep herself under control, and when Avien lowered his eyes a little, he could see that she was shivering. Her whole body went into occasional, barely noticeable spasms, as she desperately tried to keep a poker face. Isabella's fingers, long and fine-boned, drummed restlessly against her thin thighs.

Charlie Zion and Rowan Woods had managed to get seats together, carefully timing their arrivals the night previously. They'd discovered that they weren't the best team: Charlie was too blunt, and Rowan tended to dramatise things, her manipulation leaving much to be desired. But there was a strange, opposites-attract kind of liking there, that was beginning to blossom into friendship. Perhaps it would all end in tears, Charlie thought, as she took a doubtful glance at the snoozing girl in the seat next to her. _Perhaps I'd have a better chance on my own. Lone wolf. But then again, she's alright. I think she'll be loyal. A good guard. But we can't be friends, not like this. _

Close to where Finley Quill sat, were Marcus Delavega, Reel Autin and Nelson Mann. While they hadn't managed to scrape themselves seats next to their other alliance member, they'd arrived in perfect unison, and had been seated across from one another. Shooting one another encouraging looks every few minutes was comforting enough, so they left it at that. Their bond was not the strongest, and was certainly not one of friendship, but it was stable enough. They trusted one another.

Mason Maverick and Hiroko Ren had been sat near one another, much to their shared displeasure. While they both certainly remembered the conversation they'd shared on Training Scores day, and both seemed to have mixed reactions to it. Hiroko felt a repulsion towards him, feeling him to be unnatural for an Outer District dweller, much like herself. And Mason? Mason didn't like the budding attraction he was growing to her. It was not love, certainly not a crush; it was an attraction to her demeanour, and to her looks. Perhaps not even slightly romantic, but certainly at least a little sexual. It bothered him, since he'd never felt anything of the kind towards anyone before. _Great timing, hormones._

Patchouli Kevi, Aela Cureton, Rose-Mary Telesco and Nickel Peppersmith, then. Patchouli Kevi was at the far end, twiddling his thumbs almost impatiently. While some of the others shot him odd looks, he couldn't quite summon up the energy to care. His eyes were fixated on a bar a little way above his seat, and he traced out patterns onto it, too tired and too broken to bother thinking about back home, and what he was missing. What was happening back home? How was everybody? How many more cattle had been minced, how many more people had keeled over from drug ovedoses, how many more children had starved to death on street corners?

Rose-Mary Telesco was near tears. Her bottom lip was trembling, her eyes glassy, and she bowed her head in a weak attempt to hide her weakness. While she could feel predatory gazes upon her, marking her out as easy prey, she numbed herself to them. Instead, Rose-Mary thought about the arena. It was warm; perhaps it would be a jungle? Yes, a jungle, like the ones in the storybooks. She thought about that: long, winding vines reaching down from dizzyingly tall trees. Crystal-clear streams running through muddy banks, and the droning buzz of insects. She pictured herself lying on a hammock made of huge green leaves, eating plump fruits plucked from bushels. The little girl smiled to herself dreamily, as she created a fantasy world to lose herself in.

Beside her, looming high above, Nickel Peppersmith was a completely different story. His mind was empty as ever, not even bothering to appear frightened or threatening. He would do, he supposed, what he was supposed to do. Nothing more, nothing less. As he had always done, he would follow instructions to the letter, whether he liked them or not; he had no particular feelings about these new rules he would be following. Was he a good man? No. Was he a bad man? No. He was just... a man. Not a hero, not a devil, just a man. Or, as might have been more appropriate, an animal.

And Aela? Well...

**BLOODBATH –- PART 2 - READY...**

**HOUR 0900 APPROXIMATE, DAY 1. 24 CONTESTANTS REMAINING.**

Aela Cureton was one of the first to disembark the shuttle. Along with the rest, like a group of badly organised sheep, she was herded by the Peacekeepers down a ramp that extended from the side of the shuttle like a robotic tongue. More than once, she glanced sideways off the side of the ramp to look for an escape- despite her admittedly quick mind, she hadn't come to terms with her own imminent death. Upon sidestepping a foot or so to the left in order to get closer to the side, she had been met with a glower from one of the Peacekeepers, and a gun aimed pointedly at her chest.

Narrowing her eyes at him, she scooted back towards the centre of the group, and permitted herself to look around a little. They were, Aela noted, in a huge underground chamber with a rounded roof and metal walls; it was clearly military orientated, and she had no idea how the shuttle had gotten into it. Hovered downwards, maybe, through a hole in the ground? She looked up at the roof to search, lost her footing, and almost stumbled. Her toe hit the heel of Exotica Scott, who turned round and snapped at her: "Watch where you're going, District 8!"

Aela did not reply, merely narrowed her eyes further until they resembled slits, and gave the girl her best 'I may be half your size, but I will happily disembowel you as you sleep' look, which didn't seem to intimdate her. Instead of cowering and begging for mercy, Exotica sucked her teeth threateningly, before turning around and flouncing away to the head of the group.

After thirty seconds of walking, the Peacekeepers began directing tributes down passages leading off the sides of the chamber. Outside each one stood who Aela presumed were the stylists, stood to attention. There didn't seem to be a particular order in the way the tributes were being sent away, because the first to leave was the boy from District 7, Marcus Delavega. He mumbled what sounded like a goodbye to his allies, before shambling off. This continued in similar fashion, until only Aela and Patchouli Kevi were left, at the very end of the room.

"Aela Cureton, to your left. Patchouli Kevi, to the right." The Head Peacekeeper said in a forced monotone, his shoulders rolled back, and his head held high.

Dutifully, Aela turned to her left and marched straight towards the door, entering through it without saying a word to her stylist. Although the two of them had spent what was, in Aela's opinion, an inordinate amount of time together, they had barely exchanged two words. While Aela liked this, easily preferring it to the constant quibble of her Prep Team, it seemed sinister at times. Kaisar was a man with a striking resemblance to a corpse, with his drooping eyes and limp features. The way he moved reminded her of the agonizingly slow shuffle of the walking dead.

As she entered the room, Kaisar followed behind silently, and the door slid shut behind him. Swiftly, he side-stepped and overtook her. While he technically walked by her side, he was several paces ahead. She followed him down a long corridor, her tread conspicuously loud in the silence. The walls were sterile white, the floor the same shade. About fifty metres away, was another metal sliding door, and she presumed they were heading towards it. The whole place stank of cleaning fluid, but carried the earthy stench that came with any underground dwelling. It was not a pleasant aroma, and the sharpness of the cleaning fluid smell caught in her throat, adding an uncomfortable bulk to the nervous lump that was already growing there.

Eventually, they reached the other sliding door, and ventured through it into a small, four-walled room with walls and floor as white as the previous corridor. There was a glass tube in the corner in an indent in the wall, a stainless steel table in the centre of the room, with two hard-backed chairs beside it. Laid out on the table were a pair of black leggings, a black t-shirt, tough woollen socks, a pair of study looking leather boots, and a goldenrod yellow jacket. A small jug full of water, two plastic mugs, and a plate with two bread rolls and a gravy boat full of butter filled up the rest of the space on the table.

"You've showered?" Kaisar asked, in his dull voice. Aela nodded the affirmative, a nauseous feeling growing in her stomach, and stepped forward into the room. She walked straight over to the table, and picked up the leggings first, immediately shucking off her own soft cotton trousers, and switching them over without being asked. "Good. Are you hungry?"

"Yes." She said directly. While she wasn't hungry at all, her stomach too full of butterflies to take anything else, she understood the gravity of the situation. If she did not eat, she only put herself at a disadvantage. If Aela was going to do this, she was going to give herself every advantage she could. She quickly finished dressing, before snatching up one of the bread rolls, and splitting it open with her bare hands. Then, she dipped one finger into the butter-boat, and scooped up a fingerful. Taking a moment to briefly dissect the roll, removing the white insides, she rolled them into a compact ball. The ball went into her mouth, and she spread the butter from her finger onto the outer shell.

Kaiser watched, although seemed unamused. He scrunched up his face, before straightening himself out, and walked over to the glass tube. When he turned back around, Aela was drinking straight from the jug. "Wonderful manners. What a cultured young lady you are. _Bound _to do well in the Hunger Games."

Her mouth full of bread and water, Aela glared at him. Very deliberately, she swallowed, and then took the other bread roll. She stuffed it whole into her mouth, not stopping until her cheeks bulged obscenely. Kaiser snorted in disgust and turned around; at that, Aela quickly removed the soggy roll from her mouth, and tucked it into her shirt while he wasn't looking. She made a face- it wasn't the most pleasant feeling in the world- but couldn't help but feel a spike of satisfaction. When he looked back round, she nodded at him smugly.

"Swallowed it?" He asked, and she nodded.

"Chewed it up, first. Can't swallow something like that whole."

"Hmph. Good."

For a few moments more, Aela merely stood, hovering nervously, her heart thumping with anticipation. The realisation that by taking the bread with her she was cheating was enough to speed up her heartbeat, but she supposed that it didn't really give her anything to fear. Her family was all gone. She didn't have any friends. What were they going to take away from her? It was only a half-chewed breadroll the size of her fist, anyway. It wasn't like it was going to sustain her particularly well.

All of a sudden, a voice came cleanly over some hidden speakers, and Aela almost jumped out of her skin. Heart racing ever faster, she didn't have time to prepare herself for the incoming words: "All tributes to the tubes. The Games are about to begin."

**BLOODBATH - PART THREE - SET...**

**HOUR 1000 APPROXIMATE, DAY 1. 24 CONTESTANTS REMAINING.**

Charlie Zion stood tall, her chin raised high, her lips pulled back to bare her sharp teeth. Her tongue was tucked in place behind them, her eyes wide and frightened, her muscules tense. While she might have been putting on a display of fearlessness previously, the realisation that the moment was upon her was enough to send her quaking in her boots.

As the tube slowly ascended from the ground, she flexed and unflexed her hands, bowing her head. She was in complete darkness, and the sound of mechanical whirring was so loud that she couldn't hear anything else. For a brief moment, she was afraid that she might go deaf because of it; she clamped her hands firmly over her ears, her eyes scarcely open. When she looked up, about ten metres above her was a circle of light, growing larger and brighter by the second.

When she was only a few feet away from it, and her eyes were beginning to ache from the contrast, she took her hands away from her ears and let them hang loosely at her sides. Charlie could practically feel her heart in her throat so fast was it beating, and had to fight to stop herself vomiting. Her stomach was cramping painfully, and all of her muscles were so stiff that she felt a sudden burst of paranoia that she may not be able to run, which was an absolutely terrifying thought. What if, when it came down to it, she'd freeze up with nerves? What if she wouldn't be able to run?

With that thought, Charlie burst out into the sunlight, and slammed a hand over her eyes. The suddenness of the movement made her wobble, and she placed one foot backwards. Her heel was met with thin air, and her arms flew out, windmilling, as she began to tip back. Gravity pulled at her, as she remembered the words from Cicero- "You will remain on your platform"- and let out a high-pitched squeal, as she tried to right herself. She was falling, she was falling...

Crouching down, her fingernails found the front of the circular podium and clung to it, just in time. She hovered inches away from the sandy grass, and it took all of the strength in both of her arms to hoist herself back up. When she had righted herself, feeling physically sick from fear, she leaned over and dry-retched. Her eyes popped, and she shut them, feeling the sudden sting of tears. She squeezed her eyelids together, dug her fingers into her stomach, before standing back up properly. While she had regained some of her previous pride, she noted that a few of the tributes were looking at her contemptuously, now. Charlie had to hide the humiliation from her expression, and distracted herself by looking around.

It was very warm, and the sun shone in a cloudless blue sky above them. Colourful birds flew above green trees- it wasn't a jungle or anything, merely some kind of forest- and she could hear the sound of waves lapping against a shore. The air was salty, with an underlying scent of earth and fish, and wasn't wholly unpleasant. They were in a clearing surrounded by trees, although she was certain they couldn't be too far away from the beach, thanks to the sandy grass and the relatively close sounding waves. All of the tributes stood on small, rotund platforms roughly thirty metres away from what appeared to be a giant, golden metal horn: the Cornucopia. In the mouth of the Cornucopia, and scattered in a fifteen metre radius around it, were backpacks and weapons, the best goodies nearer the giant horn.

On her right side, was Finley Quill, the girl from District 10. On her left, was Winner Sinclair from District 1. She followed their gazes: Winner was grinning, ready to run, and looking straight at the Cornucopia. As a member of the Career Pack, he would be fighting there for the best weapons and supplies. Finley, meanwhile, was eyeing her allies, mouthing things at them. While Charlie couldn't make out what she was saying from this distance, she supposed that they were making plans to meet up. That reminded her about Rowan, and Charlie glanced around eagerly only to find, to her dismay, that she couldn't see her. She must be on the other side of the Cornucopia, out of her sight.

_Shit. Did we make plans? We were just gonna find each other... We didn't-_

"Tributes, tributes, tributes!" The unmistakeable voice of Cicero exploded from various loudspeakers, his voice as upbeat and cheerful as ever. He sounded like a spoilt child on Christmas, such was his infantile glee. "All ready to go?! Good! Just a little advice for you all before the show starts. Direct from me, Cicero, to you. First of all, play nice now. No dirty cheating, or we can make life _reeeaaall _difficult for you in there. Second, I wouldn't eat all of the food in the houses you may find. Might make you sick, which ruins the fun. And third? Keep out of the water. Ready? We're on."

An ear-splitting fanfare erupted from the speakers, as the tributes began to ready themselves, staring at the Cornucopia with hungry eyes. Charlie followed their lead, searching out her targets: a backpack that nobody else seemed to be looking at, and a hatchet lying a few metres further in. From there, after snatching them up, she'd go and find Rowan, being as careful as possible. If that wasn't possible, then, well...

"Sixty... fifty nine... fifty eight..." The timer began. The person doing the countdown was not Cicero, the voice was deeper, and sounded like robotic. Perhaps it was a computer speaking, and not a real person; Charlie had heard about how voices could be programmed into computers. It had made her nervous at the time. The thought of computers being able to speak and think for themselves was a worrying one. "Thirty one... thirty... twenty nine..." They were getting close, now. Most of the tributes had descended into running stances, as they prepared themselves to make a sprint for it. Charlie suddenly noticed that she needed to pee very badly, and felt the fear growing inside her to inside proportions. It was like a beast growing from an egg inside her guts, throwing back its head and roaring. "Seventeen... sixteen... fifteen..."

She might be dead soon. In less than twenty seconds, she could be a corpse on the floor. Tears began pricking back in her eyes, and she felt the sour taste of vomit in her mouth. For a girl who thought of herself as brave, the idea that she might be dying soon was taking quite an effect on her. Although, who was to say that it wasn't taking a worse effect on others? Rose-Mary Telesco, several tributes to her left, was visibly blubbering. At least she wasn't showing her fear, no matter the effect the roaring beast may be having on her innards.

"Five... four... three... two... one..."

**BLOODBATH - PART FOUR - GO!**

**HOUR 1000 APPROXIMATE, DAY 1. 24 CONTESTANTS REMAINING. **

And then, everything went mad.

Finley Quill found herself one of the first off the podiums, much to her delight, and she rocketed towards the Cornucopia, bypassing almost everybody else. The only person ahead of her was Isabella Dennis from District 6, who was pelting so fast that she was a blur. Finley watched out of the corner of her eye, as Isabella scooped up a knapsack, turned around, and ran off into the trees.

Her attention was quickly diverted, though, as her feet began to slip around on the sandy grass, and she almost did the splits as one foot slid forwards and the other back. Using this to her advantage, too full of adrenaline to feel fear anymore, she dove forwards towards a knapsack. Before she could reach it, however, she found a pair of feet running blindly into her path, and without meaning to, she took them down. The person collapsed on top of her with a shriek of terror, and Finley let out a piercing yowl as all of the breath was knocked out of her.

Without taking time to look back and see who she had tripped, Finley continued crawling forwards through the fray, and snatched up the knapsack with a victorious, wild grin. A few feet away, she caught sight of a broad machete lying there, glinting in the sun. Without a second thought, and without truly realising the gravity of taking a weapon, she crawled towards it and took it in one hand. The metal of the handle was warmed by the sun, and felt pleasant in her grip. She flexed her fingers around it once, and felt a rush of primal power.

A loud scream of agony told her that the fighting had truly begun, and Finley felt a pang as she realised that the scream meant that somebody was dead. Who it was, she did not know, but she wholeheartedly prayed that it was none of her allies. Reel, Nelson and Marcus were all special to her in their own way. But then again, what if it was the little girl from District 11 who had died? The kid from District 3?

She would mourn later, privately. For the deaths of those she had never spoken to.

"Finley! Finley!" In the chaos, she heard somebody calling her name: Nelson, she thought, Nelson. He was nearby, so nearby that he was nearly shouting in her ear... Looking up, she saw him standing over her with an axe in one hand, a look of horror on his face. "Come on, they're waiting, come on!"

With the hand not holding the axe, he reached down and helped her up. The feeling of his calloused skin against her dry palm was pleasant, and oddly comforting, especially the way he squeezed her fingers a little. But she had no time to dwell on it, before Nelson- who was still holding onto her hand- began pulling her along behind him, heading for the treeline. While running, Finley managed to get the knapsack firmly onto her shoulders, still gripping the machete. The sunlight sent light shimmering off the blade, reflecting onto all surfaces.

Then, there was a sound like an axe hitting a tree trunk, that seemed to come out of nowhere. _Thunk_. A flash through the air, as quick as a silver fish through water, and then another thunk, this time accompanied by a loud groan. Finley suddenly became aware that she was being dragged to the ground, as the hand that she had been holding was suddenly a great deal lower than it had been before. Nelson had stopped, for some reason, fallen to his knees. In the haze of battle, she had not noticed. Looking down at him, she saw that his eyes were open in wide-eyed astonishment, a river of blood spewing down his chin from his gaping mouth. His pupils were dilated, and he looked up at her with blatant horror in his expression. In front of her very eyes- for it felt like everything had suddenly slowed down- Nelson Mann keeled over and fell face down on the ground.

_BOOM!_

At the sound of the first cannon of the Games, everybody seemed to pause for just a split-second. Barely even a moment, just to recognise the fact that they were well and truly damned, now. Nelson would not be the last death, they realised, as they began to resume their fighting. Well, few of them even realised it had been he, the kindly boy from District 12, that had been the one to fall. Even less of them cared. The fact that they were still breathing, still exhaling carbon dioxide into an atmosphere than needed no more of it, was enough to satisfy them. So, they kept up the swinging of their swords, the brandishing of their weapons, the spilling of blood. They tore at one another like animals, breaking one another, as Finley kept hold of Nelson's hand. He was dead, the warmth slowly being sapped from his skin, but she didn't know what else to do. Rigor mortis was setting in, and his fingers were stiff around her.

"Shit!" Fear settled in her and gradually took hold, as Finley Quill pulled desperately at her hand. He was holding it firmly, although long since passed, and seemed to have no intention of letting go; it was a nightmare. A true, true nightmare.

"Finley! What're you doing?!" She could barely hear Reel over the roaring of blood in her ears. Eventually, she realised what she would have to do to get him off her. There was no time to prise his fingers away, not in their current state. With barely moments to spare before somebody took notice of her situation, Finley looked at the broad machete in her hand, and then at Nelson's extended arm. She flexed her fingers once more, sour bile rising in her throat and tears pricking at her eyes.

"I'm sorry. S-s-s-so sorry..." She murmured, her voice hoarse and sickened, as she raised her hand, and brought it down on the corpse's arm. Again and again, her strokes hard and unclean, blood from the wound she was making flying everywhere. There was a disgusting crack as she finally hit bone (she'd had to look away when the wound had first started bleeding properly), and tremors were sent up her arm. It didn't take her long to hack through, nearly vomiting with disgust, and she was free.

When Finley Quill, Reel Autin and Marcus Delavega later reached safely, she did not stop vomiting for ten minutes, even when her stomach had fully emptied itself.

Four corpses lay in the evening sun, as the fighting finished. Everyone else had dispersed, some licking their wounds, some fully healthy. The first corpse was of Nelson Mann, the boy from District 12. His disembodied hand, fingers curled wretchedly, lay a few feet away from the rest of his body. In his back, were two throwing knives, embedded up to the handle. In the mouth of the Cornucopia, lay another figure: Mason Maverick, the boy from District 8. He'd died fairly cleanly, a sword to the gut, and appeared almost peaceful in death, despite the many cuts and bruises on his body from a long and bloody fight with Rio Seymour. Far away, almost at the edge of the forest, was Rowan Woods. She was sprawled out, one hand extending beyond the border into the trees, a look of desperation on her beautiful face, an arrow shot straight through her neck. And the last was that of Charlie Zion. She lay collapsed on Rowan's back, blood splattered all over her chest and shoulders, from a sword through the shoulder.

And thus, the Games began.

**24th - Nelson Mann, District 12**

**23rd - Mason Maverick, District 8**

**22nd - Rowan Woods, District 12**

**21st - Charlie Zion, District 7**

**Ugh, should I tone this down? The part with Finley was probably overstepping the mark, so sorry if I have disgusted any of you with that. Like I said, gore will not get any worse than that, that's probably the most extreme we'll go. I am SO sorry if any of your characters are dead, I legitimately loved all four of those characters, and was extremely sorry to see them go. This was due to the results of the POLL, not my own choice. Once again, I am so sorry (particularly to Nelson's owner, lol), and when I next to a SYOT, I would love it if you would submit again.**

**Thank you all for reading, and apologies if I have given anyone nightmares. You guys are seriously awesome, and if it makes you feel any better, I accidentally set fire to my fringe today. Luckily didn't seem to have much of an effect, since my friend threw water over me very quickly (yes... all over me...), but it was a drama all the same.**

**Will update very soon!**


	12. Day 1 --- Drain the Blood

_All my friends are murder;_

_Hey, all my bones no marrows in;_

_All these fiends want teenage meat;_

_All my friends are murderers..._

**HOUR 1000 APPROXIMATE, DAY 2. 20 CONTESTANTS REMAINING.**

The humidity, even in the morning, was startling. The archipelago was admittedly beautiful: lush, green canopies, and trees that seemed to scrape at the azure sky; the water was sparkling, and the sand was bone white. Birds of all colours perched high up in the trees, awakening the temporary inhabitants of their home with indignant calls and shrill whistles. On the shore were wooden beach huts with planks bleached by the sun and the lapping sea. All long-since abandoned, and mostly dilapidated, they somehow managed to appear picturesque.

In one of these huts, if a person listened very closely, they might hear a quite sobbing sound, muffled by small hands. It was the sound of a female child. If the situation had been any different, the boy approaching the hut with a spear in his left hand may have been seeking to comfort her. But they were not back in the districts, where they had dwelled prior to the events of the last few days. The boy with the spear, who was advancing readily on the hut now, was by no means planning to help the child.

Avien Featherling, heart pounding, flexed his fingers guiltily around the metal pole of his spear. He was no monster, and never would be, but certainly understood the meaning of 'easy prey'. Taking out one competitor, whoever they might be, certainly narrowed down the competition; he needed that. The idea of dying- he was sceptical of any form of afterlife- sent bile rising in his throat. Eternal darkness, like being asleep forever? It just didn't make sense to him.

And there was no escaping the situation he was in. So, like it or not, he would have to adapt.

He reached the front of the beach hut, and flattened himself against the front of the hut, a few feet away from the floor. His feet, encased in military leather boots, sunk a little way into the sand, imprinting footsteps there. Without thinking, he'd left a noticeable trail behind him, and had not noticed. Even if he had noticed, it was unlikely that he would have thought anything of it. Avien lived in the moment, with little regard for anything but what he was doing in the current time. And if that set him up as similar 'easy prey' to the person he was hunting, then that was that.

Feeling like he was about to vomit, Avien took a terse step to the right, towards the open doorway of the beach-hut. Keeping his back flat against the wooden wall, he shut his eyes for a moment, then kept going. _This has to be done... At least it's me doing it and not, like, some deranged Career... _That thought, if selfish and fair, was all that kept him going. He was just a boy, forced into a situation that regarded too much morality for him. It was a matter of life and death. What he was doing was evil, but...

As his right foot met the crooked steps that led up to the beach-house doorway, he swallowed. Now or never. Elevating his leg carefully, trying to keep out of view, he slid onto the steps. The crying sound continued. Then, he tested his weight. Leaning a little bit on his leg, he experimented with whether the step would creak or not. When it didn't, upon first attempt, he swung his other leg onto it and readed himself to walk through into the doorway. His fingers, still gripping the long spear, were so sweaty that he could scarcely keep hold of it.

He hadn't taken two steps before, much to his shock, a small force barrelled into his side and sent him flying to the ground. The spear, already slick from his fingers, slid out of his grasp and rolled across the floor away from him. He felt a tiny fist thump into his temple, and looked up to discover a young girl straddling his abdomen, a look of thunderous fury on her tear-stained face. It took his relatively addled brain a moment to process who she was, before realising that it was the girl from District 11- Rose-Mary Telesco. He was barely bigger than she was, but far leaner, and he was quite surprised to discover that she had been able to knock him over.

"I'm not going to die that easy!" Rose-Mary snarled, looking so remarkably out of (what he had presumed was her) character that it might have been amusing. She looked like a feral kitten, her teeth bared, and her fists raining down on his face and chest. Since she didn't seem to know what she was doing, and where to hit, none of her blows connected with anywhere that would really matter. "I'm no easy target!"

The rage was something that she'd never really experienced before. Not that anger was foreign to her, she was only human, but such a white-hot extreme was something that Rose-Mary couldn't take. She struck the boy blindly, wildly, in an animalistic attempt to save her own skin. On what seemed like the hundredth blow, he weakly managed to catch her fist, and forced it upwards.

The two of them were locked in a battle, as he managed to grab her other hand and pushed it away; despite her size, her anger and fear was so great that she held her own competantly against him. It was an arm wrestle, simple enough, but one with a potentially deadly result. And the look of raw terror on Rose-Mary's face as Avien shoved upwards, sending her skidding backwards, was something that could never be replicated.

Without thinking, he tumbled away from her, and crawled across the floor towards the spear that lay metres away from the both of them. Catching his intent, and only a little winded, Rose-Mary mirrored his movements and threw herself towards the metal pole; her fingers grazed the edge of it, before he snatched it up into his grip, and turned back towards her. There was a frightened, yet predatory look in his wide, innocent eyes.

He struggled to find words, but managed to point the spear at Rose-Mary, who had frozen like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Her eyes were as wide as his were, and even more terrified; they darted about, going from Avien's face, to the tip of the spear. The sharp point was aimed directly at her face, and one thrust would impale it between her eyes. It was barely inches away, and she found herself going cross eyed in order to focus on it.

"Stay t... t..." Despite the fact that he now held control, Avien's heart was pumping too hard to allow him ordinary speech. He was almost doubled over with exertion, his head was spinning, and he could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. Eventually, having stuttered for a good ten seconds, he swallowed and tried again. "Stay there. Don't move, or I'll kill you. Understand?"

While Rose-Mary nodded quickly, both of them knew from the look on his face alone that he was speaking empty words. Still training the spear on her, Avien paused for a second, in order to ponder. _What_, exactly, was he going to do? He had this little girl at his mercy, didn't have the guts to kill her, and was now threatening her not to move. Was he supposed to run away? Rough her up a little, teach the mite a lesson, and _then _run away? For the first time in his life, Avien reluctantly wished that he was a Career: they were prepared for the situation, and knew what they were doing. For the outer-district dwellers, the Hunger Games was scarcely more than a bloody free-for-all.

It was at that point that Avien felt a slight twinge of anger. It was directed at himself, mostly, but also at the Capitol; he was entertaining them, and by murdering the child kneeling on the ground in front of him, he would most likely entertain them further. And for what? So they could be similarly entertained, later, by his subsequent death?

When Avien next spoke, he did so without much thought. Similarly, when he threw the spear down to the ground, he did not imagine the possible consequences. Luckily for him, Rose-Mary seemed to be willing enough to listen to him, and considered his offer for quite a long time. When she eventually got up, in order to shake his hand, there was a miniscule, wretched smile on her face.

"We're a team." She said.

**HOUR 2000 APPROXIMATE, DAY 2. 20 CONTESTANTS REMAINING.**

The Careers, Rio thought to himself, were instrinsically flawed. Aside from Korina, who could work well enough with any of them given the need, they clashed constantly. Although they had barely been in the game for over twenty four hours, there had been three rows between the ever-warring pair: Audrey and Exotica. The two of them never ceased their arguing and, it seemed, they would not stop until one of them died. It had initially merely been Exotica merely baiting Audrey for her own enjoyment, before the former became irritated with the latter's rack of reaction, and it became the first of many spitting rows.

Winner Sinclair put it best. "Cat fight. Meow."

Personal politics aside, as Rio sat by the campfire outside an abandoned log-cabin, idly tossing twigs onto the crackling flames, he was beginning to consider leaving the group. He hadn't said anything- after all, he rarely spoke nowadays- but his thoughts wandered beyond the small clearing where he sat, deep into the lush forest. He wet his lips with his tongue, and coughed quietly. In the angry silence, punctuated only by the occasional disapproving sniff from Audrey and the sound of small flames burning leaves and wood, he felt distinctly uncomfortable. Despite himself, he began hoping another fight would break out, simply for the distraction.

Hunting wouldn't start until it was properly dark. It had been ruled that they would attempt to root out sleeping tributes, to lessen the initial workload. Given that things would likely become difficult later, Audrey had stated, they might as well cruise through the first half of the games with as little effort as possible. That way, they would have more energy remaining when things got... difficult...

"Tributes, tributes!" The sound of Cicero's jubilant tones rang over the arena, emanating from loudspeakers carefully camouflaged to fit in with the scenery. Obediently, the Careers all listened for more. "Have you all had a nice day?"

"Yes." Damien was the only one who replied. His grin remained in place, as ever, although it looked strained. Perhaps, Rio thought, the girls' constant arguing had even taken an effect on Damien's eerie good temperament. Although that seemed impossible, since _nothing _any of them did seemed to garner any change in him. Korina and Winner, both of whom had not enjoyed the day of "rest", had tried to provoke him into a frown of any kind. At one point, Winner had disappeared into the trees and pretended to be a maddened mutt; Damien had done nothing more but smile, and even laughed quietly. When Korina had decided to initiate a one-sided staring contest, certain she would provoke him into an awkward glare, he merely stared right back at her. Both were thoroughly put-out.

"Good!" Cicero's voice rang out over the silent arena once more. There was a pause, the sound of grating static, and then- "No deaths so far today. I'm disappointed in you, guys. I really thought better of you. Better hope something happens quick, or..." Even though his jovial tone had not changed, there was a strange, chilling edge of threat behind it. "We may be.. ahem... forced to take matters into our own hands. Anyway, let's not think about that. Good luck, tributes! And may the odds be ever in your favour!"

There was another screech of static, and then the loudspeakers died. The arena fell into a serene stillness, once again interrupted only by the crackling of the campfire. In the time it had taken for Cicero to speak, Audrey had stopped sniffing.

She stood up. Her bow was slung over her slim shoulders, a quiver of arrows hanging lopsidedly on her back. With a small sigh, she flexed her fingers readily, before turning to the group at large. "You heard the man," Audrey murmured and, for the first time in quite a while, she smiled. White, pearly teeth shone from between cracked pink lips, and the firelight reflected off them, as well as the whites of her eyes. In the darkness, she looked almost like a ghost. "We're going to go hunting now, but we need somebody to stay behind and guard the camp... No, we'll leave two people, I think..." for a moment, she pondered her own choice. Then, she nodded crisply. "Yes, two people. Any volunteers?"

Dubiously, Rio raised his own hand, and Audrey blinked at him. She seemed surprised that anybody was willing to forgo the hunt, but then looked rather pleased. "Thank you, Rio. Anybody else?"

Eventually, it was decided that Winner and Rio would stay behind, and Damien, Exotica, Audrey and Korina would search for tributes. This decision was met with a great deal of grumbling from Winner, who was largely ignored, before the chosen four vanished out of sight, into the shadows of the trees.

Rio watched them fade into the distance.

**HOUR 2300 APPROXIMATE, DAY 2. 20 CONTESTANTS REMAINING.**

Patchouli Kevi sprinted through the undergrowth, panic running through his every pore and bursting forth, to form a slick sheen of sweat over his skin. He was wheezing, the stitch in his side so intense that he felt like his innards were being drawn from him, but he could not stop; it was a matter of life or death. Four bodies, far more powerfully built than his own, chased after him. Their heavy, branch breaking bodies pushed through the trees with more force than his own; there was no point in even attempting to be quiet. They were on his trail, they had sniffed him out like the bloodhounds they were, and were making far more noise than he could ever hope to. Their squeals and shouts of triumph masked his footfall.

He was the fox, and they were the hounds.

"Wait up, sweetie, we'll make it quick!" A girl crowed- he wasn't sure which one it was- and at least two of the others laughed breathlessly as the pace quickened. It was a disturbing rhythm: as their feet, almost in sync, hit the ground, he would spring further into the density of the undergrowth. He had long since gotten lost, but there was no helping that. Running blindly, and letting the darkness of the night swallow him, was preferable to following a certain path. They wouldn't catch him, he was certain of it.

Patch had to win. There was no alternative, and nothing in his buzzing mind could possibly suggest otherwise. Dying? It couldn't happen to him! Not until he was good and ready, that was. For somebody who had grown up so surrounded by death, he was not resigned to it. Somewhere in the hardness of his shell, there was a desperation. A desperation for life, and to live a better one than he had experienced thus far. A wretchedness, simple as that.

That was all that was going through his mind, even as his feet ran out of ground, and he went plummeting down into some kind of ravine. In the dark of the night, he couldn't tell what was happening, other than that he was falling. And although the fall couldn't have been more than eight feet or so, it seemed to last forever. The wind whistled through his ears, stinging his eyes painfully, and his mouth gaped in horror. His limbs spiralled madly through the air, trying to catch onto something that wasn't there. There was nothing to catch on to, and he was falling. Falling faster and faster, further and further.

_Well, this is it..._

He made impact.

Like a cannonball, Patch broke the water, and sank down to the bottom. His surprise at hitting the water was such that he had scarcely noticed the slight pain upon hitting the surface, and he was so astonished with his fair luck that he took a deep breath in. As the bitter water filled his mouth, he realised his mistake and hastily spat, blowing bubbles into the pool, gagging. As another great strike of luck, he hadn't swallowed any of it. Barely daring to believe what had happened, his entire body relaxing, he slowly pushed off the sandy bottom of the pool.

High above him, he could hear the Careers shouting at the top of their lungs. Being under water, he couldn't quite tell if they were yelling at him, or at one another; either way, he didn't really care. As foolish as they seemed, he doubted that they would follow him down into the pool. To them, it would look like a dead drop.

His head rose above the surface, and gasped for air, remaining as silent as he good. For a few moments, he treaded water and tried to catch his bearings, before doggy-paddling haphazardly away from where he had come. Patch's head sank beneath the water several more times, not being the best swimmer, but the pool was shallow and small enough that this didn't really matter. It was only just deep enough to accommodate his fall.

"I heard a splash!" One of the Careers, another girl, was shouting at her comrades. "There's some kind of water down there, so we can follow!"

"We're near the shoreline, you damn idiot!" Another girl snapped back. "It could have come from anywhere. It's an unnecessary risk. There are plenty more tributes."

They were silent for a few moments, before the girl who had first shouted spoke up again. She sounded like she was practically spitting with rage, and Patch couldn't help but enjoy her irritation. "We would have heard a cannon if he'd died!"

"He might not die immediately on impact. It's a stupid risk, but if you feel like jumping off a cliff, then fine with me, Exotica!"

Apparently, she didn't. Because after a few moments, their voices and footsteps faded away. Patch was safe.

For now.


End file.
